


Catch and Kiss

by Xrost



Series: Slytherin Games [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Funny, M/M, Multi, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-01-05 07:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12185916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xrost/pseuds/Xrost
Summary: George always thought the fact that Draco Malfoy survived his first Burrow visit was nothing short of a Christmas Miracle. Three years on, it looks like this Christmas is Malfoy's last chance at winning Harry Potter. This might be the most complex game of catch and kiss the Burrow has ever seen. Game, set, match sequel.





	1. Chapter 1

The sunlight streaming through the Burrow's living room windows was still a watery grey when Harry Potter Apparated in.

George yelped, jerking forward so sharply that he headbutted Millicent in the jaw. She fell of his lap and hit the floor, swearing.

"Morning, George. Morning, Mill."

"Jesus Christ, Harry!" George glared up at Harry before leaning down to help Millicent up.

Harry was faster, stopping by her and offering a hand. He might have had qualms about her at first, but after three years, most of George's acquaintance had gotten it into their heads that Mill was a fixture, not a fad.

Most. Molly was still not the slightest bit receptive to Millicent. And Arthur tended to give George the Floos of witches that he said had liked George at Hogwarts. Whenever Mill and George got into a particularly vicious slanging match, she'd throw her hands up and tell him to Floo one of his father's witches, if he didn't want her. And he'd almost always counter with, "Go take my brother, if you don't want me!" Then she'd toss her head, glare at him and demand, "You think I'd be  _here_  if he'd have me?"

Their fights were ridiculous. George was unspeakably grateful that none of his relatives had ever witnessed one. He'd had the bad luck to get into a row with Mill at her parents' house once. To his eternal shame, both her mother and father had snuck into the parlour to watch the fight – with popcorn.

It would be fine if he and Mill fought like Fleur and Fred, or like Draco and Pansy. Their rows were spectacular. All tossing of glossy hair and power poses. Elegant hand gestures – which were of themselves cutting insults. Smoulder-y looks, eloquently hurled battle cries. They could be fighting about whose hair was prettiest and it was still epic. Kind of a pity if they had fights without an audience, really.

"Why are you here so early?" Mill asked as Harry pulled her to her feet.

He rubbed the back of his neck and frowned at her. "You know. It's Christmas so – family and all."

"Where's your boyfriend?" asked George. Harry had brought him to the previous Christmas and a couple of birthdays. Callum, maybe? Ex-Durmstrang student. He was beautiful and the things he could do on a broom were insane. He'd grabbed a snitch out from under Harry's nose that Christmas. Leapt off his broom, snatched it mid-air and spelled the ground to mud as he tumbled into it.

George had just stared, open-mouthed, until Mill punched him in the shoulder, hard enough to bruise.

"If you're that enamoured, why don't you date  _him_?"

George grinned and slicked a hand through his hair. "You think he'll have me?"

But then Harry was landing, tossing his broom aside as he leapt to the ground. The momentum hurled him into Callum's muddy torso. "Idiot!" He hit one hand into Callum's broad chest. It squelched in the mud, splattering them both.

Callum held up a hand. A glitter of gold as the snitch struggled. "Don't be a sore loser now."

Harry laughed and dragged Callum in for a kiss.

Malfoy had spent that whole Christmas hissing and spitting at Harry with even more viciousness than usual, desperate to claw some attention back to himself. He managed it, of course. It was impossible to ignore Malfoy when he wanted attention.

"We broke up." Harry's voice was clipped. Kind of like he was pissed off that George had reminded him.

George choked in shock. "You let that spectacular piece of man-meat go? Merlin's wand, Harry, why?"

Mill grinned. "I think what George is asking is, can George have him now?"

"What?" Harry glanced from one of them to the other. "Oh, yeah, um – We're still friends. It's all just a bit confusing, alright?"

"Are you dating Oliver Wood now?" Nothing else made sense. George had never seen anyone match Harry like that on a Quidditch pitch. Oliver Wood might just.

Harry blinked. "Oliver Wood's gay?"

"I – don't know."

Harry's surprised look turned to a scowl. "I know what you're doing." He pointed an accusing finger at George.

George held both hands up. "No, no. We were just kissing. There was no other kinky stuff going on."

When Harry's accusing glare didn't abate, Mill shook her head in agreement. "In the Burrow  _living room_ , Potter!" she exclaimed in scandalised tones. "The Weasley parentals have probably gotten freaky in here."

Both boys shuddered in horror. George quickly stood up and stepped away from the couch. "Why do you always make it weird?" he complained.

Harry jabbed a finger at Mill before pointing at George again. "So, it's both of you? This won't work."

"Potter, please. The children were watching." Millicent motioned to the other sofa. Pudding sat regally, cleaning her whiskers. Beside her Slug was coiled around a protesting Brutus.

Harry glanced at them, frowned a little when he saw that Slug was as active as ever, but didn't comment. No one knew how a transfigured ribbon had lasted three years, but Mill got kind of offended if anyone suggested that her pet should be dead so mostly people didn't. A good call, really. When Slytherins got offended they tended to get hex-happy.

"Okay, I honestly don't care what either of you were doing. Please go back to it and stop trying to distract me."

"Distract you…" Millicent trailed off, tilting her head to glance at George.

"That means there's something to distract you from," said George.

"Why are you here so early?" asked Millicent.

"What are you up to?" asked George.

Harry gave a grunt of irritation and headed for the door. On his way through, he dragged a berry-laden sprig of mistletoe down from the door-frame.

Mill caught George's eye again. They burst into laughter at the same moment. "About bloody time, you thick git," George called after him, reaching out to pull Mill into him.

She leant against his ribcage, tucking her hands into his back-pockets. "Four Christmases, and it only just occurs to him to get rid of the stuff?"

"We Gryffindors are brave, not clever," said George.

Mill smirked up at him. "Poor little Malfoy will be disappointed."

Malfoy might be a creepy basket-case, but George felt a pang of sympathy for him. That first Christmas, three years ago, George had come downstairs at some ungodly hour to find Malfoy at the front door, an overflowing bag of magical mistletoe in hand and a pile of expensive luggage behind him.

"Merlin, Malfoy." George rubbed a hand over his face. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" He squinted into the grey light of the winter morning. "What time  _is_  it?"

Malfoy wasn't listening. He pushed past George instead and stood in the kitchen, looking around before shaking his head. "This won't do. Here." He shoved the bag of mistletoe into George's hands. "You'll need to hold that for me."

For the next two hours, Malfoy hung magical mistletoe around the Burrow. He was ridiculously thorough. He decked out the kitchen before dragging George through the rest of the house, garlanding ceilings liberally.

Then he made a coffee, leant in the entrance doorway and refused to move except to refill his mug.

Half an hour later, a crack of Apparation sounded from outside. A moment later, Harry was in the doorway, slamming Malfoy back against the inside of the frame. Coffee sloshed out on both of them. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Malfoy threw the remainder of his mug at Harry. "Merlin's wand, Potter!" he snapped. On him hopeless infatuation sounded the same as bitter hatred. Kind of looked the same too. "I'm having a coffee in peace, you complete lunatic!"

Harry slammed him into the doorframe again. "Not here," he snarled. "Anywhere but here."

Malfoy glanced at the ceiling and swore in a more colourful and inventive manner than George would have thought him capable. "You utter tool, Potter. Did you wake up this morning and decide that you weren't doing enough in the world to make me miserable?"

"I woke up this morning hoping to go two weeks without seeing you!"

"Well, I woke up this morning hoping that I'd get through the day without kissing you but…" Malfoy held his hands out to show how badly that hope had failed him.

Harry spluttered, rearing away from Malfoy and hitting the other side of the doorframe. "What..? I… No – what?"

Charlie – still outside after having Apparated Harry to the Burrow – glanced up. "Huh," he said. "Mum invested in magical mistletoe this year?"

Harry eyed the sprig of mistletoe warily. "What does that..? Stay  _back_ , Malfoy! What, Charlie?"

"Each berry is a kiss," said Charlie. "If you're caught under a sprig with someone who's not immediately related to you and you refuse, you have a year of bad luck."

Harry threw his hands up in exasperation. "I have that anyway! Every damn year."

"You haven't lost to You-Know-Who yet," George pointed out.

"I'll take that chance!"

Malfoy pushed him against the door and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I won't," he said, voice full of ice. "I'll thank you not to barge into my personal space again. And bloody look where you're going." He plucked a berry from the mistletoe and pegged it at Harry before leaning back against his side of the doorway.

Swearing, Harry stumbled into the kitchen, scrubbing at his cheek with the sleeve of his jacket.

Snorting on laughter, Charlie crossed the threshold, slowing only to kiss the top of Malfoy's head.

It had been a Christmas tradition ever since. Malfoy decking out the Burrow so that he and Harry could spend the next few days playing a complicated psychological game of catch and kiss.

It was bizarre that Harry never caught on to the whole thing. To be fair, Harry probably did think that Molly was putting the mistletoe up. And if he got caught under it with Malfoy a whole lot, well, so did everyone else in the Burrow. Over the three Christmases, every Weasley figured it out. And for some reason, every Weasley ended up conspiring to help Malfoy. None of them spoke to each other about it – George was pretty sure that they didn't even speak to Malfoy about it. They just played along.

Ginny first. That first Christmas, she got herself caught in doorways with Malfoy at an approximate rate of twice every hour until the family was convinced that she was the one Malfoy was visiting for. For a couple of stressful hours, George worried that Ginny thought that Malfoy was there for her too. But then he caught the way she'd nudge her other brothers into doorways at opportune times and realised that it was some sort of game she was playing.

#

"I'm torn," said Mill, collapsing back onto the sofa. She motioned to the doorway Harry had disappeared through. "If we help him pull the mistletoe down, Malfoy's sure to have a complete meltdown. But if we don't help, he's sure to miss at least some sprigs and he's always so desolate when Malfoy gets to kiss him."

George's brows drew together in consternation. "I see your point. Both scenarios will be hilarious…"

"Yes," agreed Mill. "But which one more so?"

"Hm." George rubbed his jaw, frowned and said, "Hm," again. "Well," he said finally, sinking to sit by Millicent on the sofa. "We've already had the scenarios in which mistletoe  _is_  involved…"

"No, no, no," Mill cut in, shaking her head. "Don't act as though we've gleaned all the entertainment we could glean from this. Only last year Potter threw himself out of the window to avoid getting stuck under the mistletoe with Malfoy. Threw himself out of the window, George!"

He'd fractured a bone in that incident, but George tried not to judge Mill's sense of humour too harshly. "True," he said. "And then there was that awkward moment when the family ghoul got stuck under the mistletoe with Percy."

Mill's eyes glossed over with happiness. "And the time that Callum got stuck under the mistletoe with Oliver Wood."

George frowned. "Was that funny?"

Mill punched him in the shoulder. "No, dumb-arse. That was super-hot. The time Callum got stuck under the mistletoe with Malfoy was funny."

George snorted. "Yeah."

Malfoy had hissed and spat like Pudding whenever Pudding had to have a bath. But the bad luck associated with breaking magical mistletoe rules was no joke, so he hadn't actually stalked off.

Callum, for his part, had leant in his side of the door-frame, kind of amused and not too bothered by the whole thing. For the entire two hours it took Malfoy to relent. They'd been in a medium traffic doorway and the rest of the Burrow's occupants had to kiss both of them every time they went through.

Every time Harry passed, he'd press Callum into the timber of the door way, lingering on long, languid kisses. Then he'd peck Malfoy on the cheek, with a grimace of distaste on his face and walk on. That had nearly broken Malfoy.

George, Mill, Fred and Pansy had sat in the corridor and watched, laughing and eating popcorn. George kind of loved Hermione for introducing them to cinemas. Popcorn really did make a show better.

But if Malfoy had loathed Callum before that incident, his feelings had spiked to homicidal afterwards.

Kind of odd, really. The Christmas prior to that, Harry had brought Terry Boot back to the Burrow. Terry might not have been the golden god that Callum was – all deep tan and hair the colour of sunlight – but Terry was attractive. Athletic in the elegant style of a swimmer. He was smart.

And in the bloody aftermath of the final battle, he was there for Harry. Unwaveringly.

Malfoy had been mean to Terry, for sure, in his usual casual way. But Malfoy's interactions with Terry lacked the malice that cropped up every time he spoke to – hell, even looked at – Callum.

Sometimes George thought that maybe Malfoy realised how much Harry had needed someone after the war, so Malfoy had let Harry have Terry – kind of like at Hogwarts when Malfoy realised that Harry needed his stone more than Malfoy needed an addition to his Potter shrine. But then Malfoy had been so fucking awful to Harry that year, that George really couldn't say for sure.

Malfoy really had been an arse to Harry for the past few years, but that was only part of the reason that George said, "I think we should help Harry."

When Millicent looked as though she might object, he held his hands up.

"I get that pulling the mistletoe down takes what could be a wide range of amusements and focuses them on Malfoy, but imagine it, Mill. He'll have a meltdown, sure, but he won't be able to do it openly. If he does, Harry's sure to figure out what's going on. Seriously, Mill. Draco Malfoy trying to have a temper tantrum quietly. Think on it."

Millicent did think about it. Then she went to the fireplace and began tearing down mistletoe.

George grinned and headed off to work on another room.


	2. Chapter 2

Millicent and George were sitting in the living room again when Malfoy woke up. George heard the casual padding of Draco's dragon-slippered feet as he wandered through the upstairs rooms, the sound made distinctive by the little claws that click-clacked against the floorboards.

Silence for the longest moment. Not a peaceful silence; the kind of unbearable silence that comes when one has found out that their loved one has died – or that the magical mistletoe they had spent hours putting up has disappeared. George tried unsuccessfully to tamp down a grin.

And then the frantic patter of slippers, dashing from one room to the next. A little soul-cry – almost exactly the same cry Malfoy had uttered when being hit with Crucio during the war. Merlin, he was such a drama queen.

Mill hunched over Brutus, trying to concentrate on tying Christmas baubles into his fur. Her shoulders were shaking with too much supressed laughter to manage it. George reached over to rub her shoulder before pressing a quick kiss to it.

A dishevelled, wild-eyed Malfoy appeared in the doorway, panting in distress.

"Morning, Malfoy," said George.

"Why is the house naked?" he wailed because when he was over-tired he spoke like a toddler.

"Potter arrived early," said Millicent.

Malfoy perked up at the mention of Harry, a half-smile curling on his mouth as he smoothed his hair down. Then he realised what Mill meant. "Why didn't you stop him? You pitiless beast!"

"We considered stopping him," said George. "But we saw what happened to You-Know-Who when  _he_  tried to stop him and we thought 'Nah, better not.'"

Malfoy stared at them eyes wide with pained horror; as though the depth of Millicent and George's betrayal was beyond his comprehension. "You awful monsters! I  _trusted_  you!"

It was probably a bad sign that he was too desolate to even cast hexes at them. Instead he came across to curl up on the couch by George, sniffling and snuggling into his side for comfort.

George stroked Malfoy's hair soothingly. "You were only meant to have two Christmases here, Malfoy. If you didn't get Harry in the first two years, did you really think that you were going to?"

"Malfoys always get what they want.  _Always_." Malfoy's voice was muffled by George's jumper, but he still sounded cheated at the fact that he didn't have Harry.

"Probably not always," said George.

Malfoy lifted his head to glare at George. "I got to come here for more than two Christmases, didn't I? You said only two and you said it wasn't fair on Potter to have more and…"

Huh. George had nearly forgotten that conversation. They'd had it that second Christmas when Malfoy had been so bloody unpleasant to Harry that Bill, Fred and Ron had taken to body-slamming him aside if they saw him go near Harry. Hermione might have hexed him once or twice too. And Terry Boot had been really, really good at running interference.

Not that Harry needed the protection. He could look after himself. Two months prior, he'd killed Voldemort. Torn through a fuck-load of Death Eaters to get to him.

George still didn't like to think about it. Whenever he did, he couldn't help but think that they could have gotten away with less losses. Should have.

Not one of the three wizards and two witches whose goal it was to get Harry through the inner circle to Voldemort made it ten paces into the manor's front hall. Ron and Hermione were meant to be with him but someone triggered a shut-down spell and they were bringing up the rear.

By the time those on the outside managed to destroy the Death Eaters and werewolf pack protecting the manor and get the doors open again, it was over.

A trail of bodies led to the drawing room.

Inside, Harry was on his knees, dry, aching sobs heaving through is body. The room was a mess of blood. Voldemort's broken wand was on the rug, a few feet from Harry. George couldn't tell whose blood was whose – but there was a lot of it on Harry's shirt.

Hermione ran to him, sliding to her knees and catching his face. Wand out, she was already checking him over for wounds. Trying to find the worst so that she could work her way down.

He leaned away from her, shoving her back. "Stop it – I'm not even…" He choked himself off, shaking his head. "It's the fucking snake. Jesus."

Hermione turned to follow his gaze. Nagini was coiled in the darkest corner of the room – too far from the door to make an escape.

Hermione rose slowly and Nagini struck out, hissing before coiling back. She was too far away from them to do any damage.

"Mate?" Ron lay his hand on Harry's shoulder.

George could already see the problem. Nagini was terrified of them. If she'd thrown herself into the fray when Harry had gone up against Voldemort, she'd have died then. It didn't take much to kill an animal that was attacking you. But this.

Nagini hadn't chosen to become a horcrux. She was the only being on this battlefield who hadn't made the decision to be there. A creature a long way from home who had followed the one person who had a familiar language if nothing else. But she  _was_  a horcrux. So, choice or not, she had to die.

George turned to Mill. He didn't know why. She'd gone back into a housefire for Brutus when Death Eaters had targeted the Weasley homes. There was no way she'd be able to hurt Nagini.

Malfoy kicked Harry over. The basilisk fang clattered out of his hand. Not breaking stride, Malfoy scooped it up, crossed to Nagini and slammed the fang through her throat, up into her brain.

"It's a fucking snake, Potter. Some god-damn saviour you are." He threw the fang at his feet and wiped Nagini's blood off on his robes.

Ron helped Harry up. He was limping – barely.

George looked around the room at the mess that was all that was left of Voldemort. He shook his head. "Mill?"

She shot him a bright grin. "You go on. Us Slytherins are going to crack open some of the Dark Lord's ridiculously expensive cigars."

Pansy dragged blood-matted hair from her face, a smile curling to her mouth. "Don't look so shocked. When have Slytherins ever done anything for unselfish reasons? And we totally deserve it."

It was good of them to give Harry some space with his friends. When the Gryffindors got back to the Burrow and realised just how not okay Harry was, George was doubly grateful.

#

George shook himself, glancing to Millicent before looking back to Malfoy. "Yes," he said slowly. "You did get more than two Christmases."

He still had no idea how. That first Christmas, Molly had been all for throwing Malfoy out into the street. She hadn't, because refusing to let George have his friend over meant that she'd have to kick all of her other kids' friends out too. But then, after the second Christmas, she'd done a complete one-eighty and was writing to Malfoy to come for the holidays. Any holidays.

It was weird. And George was pretty sure that Percy had looked into the Imperius Curse to see whether it was natural.

"But getting more Christmases doesn't automatically entail getting Harry."

Malfoy threw himself into the cushions of the couch, folding his arms and pouting. "Don't I deserve to be happy?"

"Well…" There wasn't an easy way to say this. "I don't think so. You broke Harry and Terry Boot up…"

Malfoy sniffed. "Boot was an idiot."

"Harry liked him," George pointed out. "Harry didn't have nightmares when Terry Boot was around."

Malfoy sniffed again, nose turned up in disdain.

George sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He glanced to Mill again, but she was tossing Brutus like a fluffy ball and she was never much good at explaining to Malfoy why he couldn't have things. Probably because she thought that she should have all the things too. They didn't quite get it when the thing didn't want to be had. "You remember the nightmares, Malfoy?"

Malfoy tossed his head. "Potter would not have the nightmares with me! I would keep him up all night with sex and there would be no room for dreams of other men!"

George gave a mewl of frustration. "You're bloody impossible, Malfoy. Only you would trivialise nightmares of killing You-Know-Who into a dream about another man."

"Well, it is," said Millicent.

George jabbed her in the ribs. "Don't you start."

She leant into his other side, nuzzling her face into his jaw. "I think that Malfoy's being very reasonable about all of this. If you dreamt of other women every night, I'd hex you until you stopped. There would be no sexing." She nipped her teeth into his skin and he laughed.

"You're both mental. If Bellatrix LeStrange had done to me the things she did to the Longbottoms, it would be perfectly natural to have nightmares about it."

"And just as natural for me to be mad with jealousy," said Mill, smiling serenely. "I'm the only woman you should fear. And I would make sure you feared me so much that there was no room left for her."

The stairs creaked as someone else padded down them. Molly appeared in the doorway a few moments later. "Why is the house bare? I thought all of you stayed up to hang mistletoe last night?"

Malfoy let out a cry and launched himself into Molly's arms. "That monster undid all of my hard work!" he wailed as Molly petted his hair. "I tried to make the Burrow so beautiful for Christmas and he ruined it!"

Still petting his hair, Molly cooed soothingly and led him away to feed him. It was her go-to response for emotional trauma, and it hadn't failed her yet.

George threw himself back into the couch and glanced across at Mill. Her mouth quirked in amusement and she lifted her shoulders. Malfoy was fickle when it came to seeking comfort. But, thank Merlin, he was someone else's problem now.

#

The scent of bacon permeated through the lounge. George elbowed Mill. She tilted her head and kissed him sleepily. "'Nother minute."

"It's Christmas, dumbass. You don't have work. And there's food."

She lifted her head properly, blinking as she looked around the Burrow lounge. "Merlin, I love it when other people cook for us."

George snorted. Molly hadn't exactly asked Mill to help her in the kitchen that first Christmas, but it was kind of expected of the girls. Mill managed to destroy about half the Burrow's stoneware, set fire to the water faucet and catapult the Christmas turkey through the window panes into the vegetable patch where a pack of feral garden gnomes made off with it.

After that Molly firmly sent a protesting Millicent out of the kitchen.

Mill had grinned wickedly the moment she stepped into the comforting circle of George's arms. He frowned down at her. "Really? That – You could have pretended to cut your finger while chopping vegetables. You didn't have to destroy half my childhood home."

She snorted. "I didn't want an exemption for  _this_  Christmas, Weasley. I want an exemption for  _all_  Christmases. These hands are too fine to be messing with menial labour. And anyway," Her mouth quirked, "I have far more important things to do."

"Hn," said George and kissed her. Only later did he realise that she meant tormenting Fred.

#

They followed the smell of bacon and sound of frying eggs, pushed past a still bereft-looking Malfoy in the kitchen doorway and found seats at the kitchen table. Almost everyone was there already. Only Ginny, Harry and Ron conspicuously absent. Percy was coming a bit later and Pansy and Hermione were at Hermione's parents until the next morning.

Ron stumbled into the hall outside the kitchen as Mill reached for the butter.

He stopped in the doorway to kiss Malfoy. "Morning, git," he said with maybe a little less animosity than he'd shown in school.

Malfoy rubbed his freshly-kissed cheek, face crumpling in misery. "You're just tormenting me now!" he wailed.

Ron tottered back, eyes widening in surprise.

Charlie motioned to the doorway with his fork. "No mistletoe," he said through a mouthful of crumpet and baked beans.

Ron's gaze darted upward, mouth dropping open. "What..? How did..?" He puffed out a breath and turned to stare at the table. "Harry came early, did he?"

"Looks like," agreed Angelina. She straightened her jumper – a fluffy, maroon thing with 'Don't Play with My Toys' emblazoned in silver across the front.

"Huh." Ron grinned, face lighting up. "That's awesome. Go, Harry."

Letting out a heart-cry, Malfoy struck him across the head.

"Ronald Weasley!" exploded Molly. "You're upsetting Draco! Oh, Draco, love, come here."

Whimpering in abject misery, Draco went.

He curled into the seat between Molly and Charlie. Molly hugged him, murmuring soothing words while Charlie stroked his back, glowering at Ron.

Rubbing the back of his head, Ron glowered back. "Merlin, how do you think he's making  _me_  feel?" But it really was no use trying to talk sense into Molly and Charlie about Malfoy. Hell, it was no use trying to talk sense into half the Weasley's about Malfoy. He was like that damned ill-tempered cat they'd once had. The one that would wake them up by clawing out their throats and then run screaming for help the moment they came after it. And whoever it found would protect it to the last breath – never mind that it was their throat that had been clawed the previous day. That was fucking Malfoy.

"Maybe we can put the magical mistletoe back up," Draco suggested as Ron skulked in and took a seat.

Fred scratched the side of his nose. "Ah, yeah. Harry burned it."

Malfoy stared at him. He stared so long that Fred stretched uncomfortably in his seat, the words 'Angie's Toy' rippling across his silver jumper. A relic of the days when Fred was convinced Mill was hopelessly enamoured of him. He wasn't even twitchy about it any longer, which upset Mill greatly.

"I'm going to drown myself," said Malfoy. He tilted his head to the side to think and added, "Tastefully – in bourbon."

Arthur slammed his hand down on the table. "I'm not having anyone drowning themselves in bourbon or otherwise on my Christmas. Draco, you may drown yourself afterwards. Perhaps on New Years' Eve. That's a nice, young person's festive event. But there will be no drowning today."

Malfoy sighed deeply, but gave in to his fate of surviving Christmas with relatively good grace.


	3. Chapter 3

"Does this look like your mother's hand-writing?" Mill waved a piece of still-drying parchment in George's face.

He caught a glimpse of the words 'lovely' and 'Callum', and sat up on the bed so fast that he nearly headbutted Mill for the second time that day. "What?" Reaching out, he caught her wrist and jerked it, and the letter, closer.

The words blurred as his vision adjusted. When they came into focus, they didn't make much more sense. "Mill?"

Mill pulled the letter back and studied it, eyes narrowing in concentration. "It's quite like her writing, isn't it?"

George cleared his throat. "Why are you forging a letter to Callum from my mother?" It really wasn't fair. George was meant to be the fun one in the relationship. His entire family and all of Hogwarts to boot had expected that he'd be the bane of his girlfriend's existence someday. But, while Mill wasn't exactly a bane, he couldn't keep up with her.

Waving the letter in the air to dry it, Mill chewed her lower lip. "Draco's spat is not all that it could be," she said. "I think that Callum could make it better."

George couldn't decide on whether to swear, laugh or shake his head at her, so he tried to do all three. "Merlin, at least let me hide mum's good china."

Maybe it was wrong to use Malfoy's emotional pain against him, but Malfoy had sold the story of Harry Potter's defeat of You-Know-Who to the Daily Prophet right before that second Christmas, and George kind of thought that he deserved it. Besides, Mill was right – this would make Christmas so much funnier.

#

Harry didn't show up for lunch and, by mid-afternoon, Malfoy was sitting at the window like a desolate puppy waiting for its master to return. George and Mill had commandeered the sofa closest to him. They both had snacks stuffed down their jumpers in preparation for Callum's arrival. George might have had fleeting qualms about making Callum come all the way to the Burrow on false pretences, but if Callum did come it stood to reason that he was still interested in Harry. And from Harry's behaviour that morning, George was pretty sure he regretted the break-up.

"Maybe we should look for Potter," Malfoy suggested. "He could be dead."

Fred didn't look up from his game of cards. "Ginny's with him, git."

"No one cares about her," said Draco.

"We're all kind of related to her," said Charlie. Not exactly reproving, more like stating a fact.

Malfoy waved that away. "I mean, she can look after herself."

That was ridiculously true. Ginny had pretty much single-handedly protected the Burrow during the arson attacks. Malfoy had been around too, but from what George had gathered, he'd mostly hidden under the settee and screeched about how his father would hear of it. It had worked out okay for Ginny. Was the last time her family had tried to keep her home and out of the fighting during the war. She still teased Malfoy mercilessly about the whole thing.

Callum showed up as the last rays of sunlight lit Malfoy's profile through the window.

"Door was open." Callum leaned in the doorway and jerked his head toward the kitchen.

Mill let out a gasp of excitement, catching George's upper arm and squeezing it as she bounced on the couch cushions.

George was too riveted on Malfoy's reaction to pay any heed to the claw-like nails gouging into his skin.

Malfoy turned his head with a little flick that flipped his hair out of his eyes. "McCarrick. You're here then." He stretched his spine like a cat. "I suppose it was too much to ask to go one Christmas without Harry fucking Potter. Where is he?"

Callum blinked. "Is he not here? I thought…"

Malfoy tilted his chin up. "You thought what?"

"Well, he's always here for Christmas, isn't he?"

"You should know," said Malfoy. "What with being his one true love and all."

"Ah." Callum rubbed the back of his neck. "We broke up. Couple weeks ago."

Malfoy gave a choked, spluttering cough; unbefitting any Malfoy anywhere. Lucius would turn in the grave at that uncouth sound emerging from the lips of his only heir – well, if were dead, he would. Malfoy cleared his throat and glowered at Callum. "I can't say I'm surprised. You're not any catch, but you didn't have to stoop to Potter. What made you chuck him over?"

Callum's eyes darkened. "Uh," he said. As though the break-up hadn't been his idea.

Malfoy tilted his head, eyes bright. "Oh. He threw you, then?" His lip curled in malicious amusement. "Have you found another celebrity to latch onto yet?"

George's stomach twisted in discomfort. If Harry had dumped Callum – and Callum had been so quick to come back when given the chance… Crap. This wasn't going to be as much fun as Mill had hoped. George glanced across at her. Aside from dipping a hand into the neckline of her jumper for popcorn at intervals, she seemed fully devoted to the scene.

Glancing back, George took in Malfoy's supercilious sneer and how it contrasted with Callum's look of earnest worry.

"I had a letter saying that Harry was upset." Callum glanced to Charlie. "Is he okay?"

"No one actually cares." Malfoy's voice was flat and cold. "Now, you've had your special Boy-Who-Lived experience. Please go and sell your story or something – because you're done here."

George extracted his arm from Mill and got up. Charlie would step in before it got too bad, but George didn't want to see any more. Between Christmases and birthdays, it was too easy to forget what an absolute monster Malfoy was around Harry. Malfoy on his own was mostly manageable. He could go stretches of time being pleasant. If he practiced that behaviour at the Burrow, he'd have a much more significant chance with Harry.

But he never did.

That first Christmas, he'd swanned around in silk pyjama bottoms in Slytherin green, one of Ginny's red Gryffindor scarves and nothing else. It didn't much matter if you hated or loved him; he was lean, muscled and sculpted in a way that made all the heterosexual women in the house - and Harry - look.

When, on the second day, Harry had grumbled, "Why don't you change? You look like a Christmas tree," Malfoy had cast him an assessing glance.

Then he'd leant back against the kitchen bench, stretching lightly so that the muscles along his sides tightened. "I think the entire room's aware that you wish to climb me, Potter."

If Harry hadn't been in that awkward phase where he hadn't quite admitted to anyone that he was gay, it probably wouldn't have been anything. But Harry hadn't been out, and he'd turned the kind of red that would give the scarf a run for its money.

Instead of letting it go, Malfoy had pounced on that weakness. Had used it every chance he got to fluster and humiliate Harry until Harry was convinced that using his sexuality against him was some great homophobic joke on Malfoy's part.

Malfoy still didn't know how to let things go. He'd probably never learn.

George caught up the scraps bucket from by the door and headed out to feed the chickens. The time away from the clamour of the Burrow at Christmas was ridiculously refreshing, and George found himself dawdling amongst the sleepy hens.

He was about to head back in when Brutus rolled over to him, his fur fluffed up in agitation. It was a sure sign that the situation inside was getting worse. Puffskeins didn't handle tension well. George scooped Brutus up and tossed him into the air a couple of times. "It's okay, buddy. We'll stay out here a while."

If the tension was up inside, at least Mill would be happy. George headed around the henhouse to the gate. A walk down the lane would calm Brutus's nerves, and hopefully the situation inside would be over once they got back.

Harry and Ginny's brooms were propped against the back wall of the henhouse. George frowned. They were back then. Must have come back while he'd been feeding the chickens. He walked forward to touch Ginny's. Cold – either they'd been carrying them or they'd been back a while.

The Burrow door slammed shut. George spun, but the henhouse wall obscured the entryway.

"What are you doing here?" Harry's voice. Kind of annoyed. Any thoughts George might have had of announcing his presence died.

Callum's reply was sedate. "Molly sent me an owl. Said that you seemed out of sorts."

George leant back against the henhouse. He'd have to wait out the conversation. No way was he going out there if there was a chance that Harry was about to learn that Mill had sent the letter – and, considering that Molly hadn't even seen Harry today, that chance was good.

"Okay, no offence, but how are my feelings your business?" asked Harry.

Callum let out a huff of breath – soft and amused. "You know that saying no offence doesn't actually make that inoffensive, right?"

" _You_  left  _me_ , Callum." Harry's voice was about as hard as it had been in the weeks after Sirius Black's death. "That makes this none of your business."

A huff of breath again – more like a sigh than a laugh this time. "And you still refuse to see why I left you–"

"Because your reasoning is insane," Harry cut in.

"I'm not the one who's being wilfully blind to reality."

Shit. George had hoped that this would be a quick, perfunctory farewell. It was turning into something more, and it was a bit late for George to step out now.

Harry snorted in the manner of someone who'd had this argument before. "I want you."

"You have no idea what you want." Callum's voice, usually so mellow, was sharp as a blade. "For a Gryffindor, you're a bloody coward. You know–" He cut himself off and dragged in a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. Still furious, but icy rather than sharp. "Your whole life those around you have destroyed the things you loved, taken away the things you wanted. And now that you have the chance of those things, you're destroying it yourself."

"You dumped me." Harry's voice was tight with anger. "I'm not the one screwing this up."

"Right. You're going to persist with this claim that you want me?"

"It's not a claim. Christ, what do you expect me to do?"

"Convince me," said Callum.

Harry swore and, moments later, the Burrow door slammed once more.

George blew out a breath of relief – a little pre-emptively, as it turned out. As he pushed himself away from the wall, Callum walked through the gate, glanced sideways and locked gazes with George.

George cleared his throat. "Ah. Awkward timing, mate."

Rubbing a hand through his hair, Callum gave a short laugh. He came across and sat in the snow by George. "No magical mistletoe this year?"

George shrugged. It was cold out, but the Burrow was sure to be a swirl of aggression and bickering now that Harry and Malfoy were both there. Sitting with Callum for a bit was bound to be time better spent. Tucking Brutus into his jumper, George sank into the fresh snow. "Harry got sick of kissing Malfoy."

Callum's mouth quirked in amusement.

"He does – you know…" George trailed off, frowning as he tried to sort out what he wanted to say. "Harry was happy with you." George was pretty sure that Harry had been. Harry had never seemed all that comfortable with Boot. He'd obviously liked him a lot – but Callum had been another level.

Callum grinned. "Of course he was happy with me, dumbarse. I'm fantastic."

That made George laugh.

Callum ran a hand through his hair. "But you heard all that, right? I ask him to convince me, and he walks away."

George stared at him. "But that's not – Merlin, Callum, what do you want from him?"

"Nothing," said Callum. He shrugged at George's baffled look. With a wry curl of the lip, he said, "We had a good run. I'm not complaining. But I'm not staying with someone just because I can make them happy. Why should I?"

George frowned, even more confused. Sure, people probably could be happy with someone they didn't love. But who in their right mind wouldn't love someone like Callum? And – it just wasn't like Harry. Harry might settle, but he wasn't the type to take an easy chance of happiness if it meant sacrificing love.

Callum thumped George's shoulder. "If Mill asked you to prove yourself, you wouldn't walk away."

"No, but that's  _Mill_ ," protested George.

Callum gave him a little cat-grin, and it occurred to George that maybe Callum wanted a boyfriend who thought about him the way that George thought about Mill. Not unfair, he supposed.

"Well," said Callum. "Nice to see you again, mate." He scratched his jaw. "Good to see Malfoy too, actually. Odd little bundle of aggression, that one. Perhaps apologise to your mother for cutting the visit short?"

George nodded his agreement and Callum Apparated away.


	4. Chapter 4

Mill wasn't in the sitting room when George went back inside, so he headed up the stairs for his old bedroom. Mill was sitting on the bed, while Malfoy paced the sliver of floor-space, yelling at her.

"Oi," said George, sliding onto the bed and putting an arm around Mill. "Don't scream at my girl."

Malfoy slammed the door shut and cast a Muffliato. "You!" He jabbed his wand at George. "You were probably in on this! Did you and Mill conspire to send a letter to lure Callum bloody McCarrick here?"

When George had first dated Mill, he'd tried to take the heat for things she'd done. He knew better now. "No, no. That was all Mill's brilliant machination."

Mill grinned. "Damn straight."

"Why do you look so pleased with yourself?" wailed Malfoy. He jabbed the wand at George again. "Why are you acting so proud of her? She tried to obliterate my happiness!"

When Malfoy glowered at Mill, she tossed her head. "I refuse to apologise for keeping myself entertained," she said.

"Considering that Harry showed up at some ungodly hour merely to drag down all of your magical mistletoe, I kind of think that your happiness was already on shaky ground," George pointed out.

"If I never get Potter, I will hold you responsible!" exclaimed Malfoy.

"Or you could – you know – hold the fact that you stalked and tortured him for years responsible?" suggested George.

Mill snorted. "That's exactly how I got you, Weasley. But I'm significantly better at the whole thing because I broke you in days, not years."

George grinned at her. "Maybe I just know a good thing when I see it." Compliments still made her bristle, she just tried to hide it now.

"Stop being disgusting," snapped Malfoy. "Obviously no one else would have either of you." He threw himself on Fred's old bed and buried his face in his arms. "This is a nightmare. It's the first time Potter's been single at Christmas since he came out and you're both ruining it."

"Well," said George.

"And you don't even care!" Malfoy screeched.

"We really don't," agreed Mill. "It's not at all interesting. Can you go and have a fight with someone and make Christmas fun again?"

Malfoy lifted his head to stare at her in pained disbelief before throwing himself back into the mattress with a sob of despair.

George gave Mill a hard look and moved across to sit by Malfoy. "Hey." He smoothed the blond hair back soothingly. "Come on, buddy. You remember making 'Potter Stinks' badges that time, right?"

"I was a child!" wailed Malfoy. "I can't be held accountable for my rash but well-intended actions!"

 _Well-intended_? Jesus Christ. George dropped that point of conversation. "Well, you remember last Christmas when you tried to seduce Callum away from Harry?"

Malfoy spluttered at the reminder of his failed conquest. "Potter never knew about that!" he protested. "He can't blame me for something he doesn't know about!"

George huffed out a breath. "He knows that you sold his story to the Daily Prophet." That incident still rankled, rubbing like salt against an open wound. Malfoy had taken their side during the final battle. Maybe he'd been a smug git about the fact that Harry couldn't kill Nagini, but it was Malfoy. If there was boasting to be done, he'd front the line.

George had thought that Harry and Malfoy would be good after that last fight. At least until he'd opened the Daily Prophet two weeks later to a full page spread of what had gone down in the final battle. Everything was there – lists of the living and dead on both sides, Harry's break-down, a description of the scene of the last battle – so detailed that it brought back all the cold-sweat nightmares that George had been trying to self-medicate away.

George had stormed back inside and tossed the paper at Mill. "Someone's leaked." He leant in the doorway and glowered at her as he tried to piece together who would have – Jesus, who could have? No one had seen Harry break at the end. No one they didn't trust.

She unfolded the creases George had crushed into the parchment and glanced the article over. "Draco Malfoy," she said finally.

"What?" George's head came up. Blinking away his thoughts, he stared at her.

"Draco Malfoy." She tapped the page. "It's no secret, Weasley. He's put himself on record."

George snatched the paper up. Sure enough, Malfoy was named. George swore and flung the paper away, smashing a nearby vase.

Mill smiled, because the vase had been a gift from Molly and she hated it. "The thing about Malfoy," she said, "is that no matter what he might be – and he is a whole lot of things, George – he is not boring."

"He's a fucking traitor," said George. "I was even – hell, I was thinking of inviting him to more than two Christmases. But he really is a Malfoy."

Mill crossed to him in two strides, caught his face and nipped hard at his bottom lip. "Try to see it from his perspective." Then she scooped Pudding off the couch and headed for the bedroom.

George did try to see it from Malfoy's perspective. He  _liked_ Draco Malfoy, God help him. And he wanted there to be a reasonable explanation. Was it that Malfoy wanted to be the hero for once? Had the reporter flattered his significant ego until he'd been overcome and spilled? Was it an attempt to get Harry's attention, only on a larger, more awful scale? Or had he not been able to handle finding out that, yes, Harry was gay, but he wanted Terry Boot; not Draco Malfoy?

#

George's brow furrowed at the memory. Crushing his hand into a fist, he pulled it away from Malfoy's hair. "Do you think Callum would sell Harry's story like that? And for what, Malfoy?"

Malfoy jerked up, spinning to glare at George. "I don't want to hear about bloody McCarrick! I  _hate_  him!"

George shrugged, but didn't relent. "Terry Boot then. Do you think he'd sell Harry's story?"

Malfoy threw his hands up. "What do I care what he'd do? He's an idiot!"

"You're an idiot," said George. "You had a million chances to make a good impression on Harry, and you blew every one of them."

Malfoy collapsed face down on the bed, buried his face in his jumper and snuffled.

Sighing, George glanced to Mill for help.

"Potter is an idiot," said Mill, which wasn't really the support that George was looking for. "Find a better boyfriend."

"I want Potter," wailed Malfoy.

Mill yawned.

Sitting up, Malfoy wiped his eyes. "He has a good body. And green eyes."

George hit him across the back of the head. He couldn't help it. And, really, it was obviously a case of extreme provocation. It was kind of hard to tell with Malfoy, but George was pretty sure that he did like Harry for reasons not related to muscle mass or melanin.

Maybe George was giving him too much credit. It was Malfoy, after all. The kid who, on being given a Weasley jumper the previous year, had demanded that Molly knit him a new one. In pine-needle green. When Bill had pointed out that the jumper Molly had made  _was_  green, Malfoy had thrown a spool of wool at his head and snapped, "And if I would be seen dead in a mint-green jumper that would be acceptable. But I have standards!"

Instead of smacking Malfoy about the head and banishing him from the Burrow, Molly had pulled her knitting basket out and gone through the colours with Malfoy. And the next morning, he'd had a pine-green jumper with rustic gold trim.

He was wearing the jumper now, snuggling into it like it was a comfort blanket. "Why can't I just have what I want?"

"Have you ever actually told him that you want him?" asked George.

"He should tell  _me_! I buy new wardrobes every Christmas. My personal grooming is impeccable. How can he resist?"

The conversation was giving George a headache. Throwing an apologetic look at Mill, he abandoned her to Malfoy's tantrum.

Going downstairs after witnessing the fight between Harry and Callum wasn't appealing, so he headed for Ron's room instead. With luck, Harry would be in the living room.

Ron was in his bedroom, surprisingly enough. Lying on his back on the bed with a pillow over his face.

"Harry's back," said George.

"Close the door for Merlin's sake," said Ron.

George did so. "All good, mate?"

Ron sighed. "Malfoy's around somewhere?"

"Throwing a tantrum," agreed George. "I left Mill to deal with it."

Ron sat up and put the pillow aside. "As long as we know where he is."

George went to sit on the foot of the bed. With a new break-up under his belt, Harry probably didn't want a gloating Malfoy around. "Don't worry. Mill will be able to keep him busy." He leant back on his hands. "You know, we could probably get Malfoy to stop coming for Christmas…"

Ron's eyebrows shot up. "Why on earth would we want to do that?"

"Well," said George. "If we got rid of Malfoy, Harry might be able to keep a boyfriend longer than one Christmas."

Ron gave a hollow laugh. "No doubt. But don't be a monster, George. You know both Terry and Callum have great big families. It's not as though Harry had nowhere else to go for Christmas."

The rest remained unspoken – that Malfoy  _didn't_  have anywhere to go – because he'd chosen Harry's side during the war and had lost every bit of family he'd had.

George rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I don't know why he can't just be a bit more pleasant to Harry." His voice came out rough with irritation. "He can be the most ridiculously charming guy sometimes – why the hell doesn't he use it on Harry? He's so hung up on him, but he treats him like—" George threw his hands up.

Ron's mouth quirked. "He's not that bad."

George leaned back against the bedpost, studying his brother with narrowed eyes. Ron had broken sometime during the second Christmas. Not at the start. At the start, he'd been all for stringing Malfoy up by the ankles and practicing curses on him.

Then, after seemingly countless nights broken by Harry's nightmares, and equally endless days of Malfoy picking fights with Harry over nothing, it had come to a head.

A couple of nights after Christmas, George had retreated to the landing outside Ron's room to avoid another witch that Molly had invited to dinner. He could handle the witches reasonably well. Well, if Mill would tell them that she was his girlfriend, he'd be able to. But whenever he tried to explain it, she'd look at him blankly and then laugh carefully as though she thought it was a joke, but she didn't get it. Then George would be stuck talking to whoever it was that his parents had managed to wrangle up.

This time it was Jeannie, a willowy brunette whose father worked with Arthur. Molly had sat Mill as far away from George as physically possible – and, given the size of the Weasley family, it was far. But not far enough to evade Mill's super-hearing. Every time Jeannie mentioned one of her interests, Mill would turn and call out over the table, "Oh my God, George, that's your favourite too! What a coincidence!"

It was partially because they'd had a fight earlier, but most of it was that Mill was a bit of a cow.

Aside from embarrassing Jeannie in front of everyone, there wasn't anything for it. The moment that dinner was over, George retreated to the safest likely place in the Burrow – the landing outside of Ron's bedroom. The door was open a crack, letting out the watery glow of a nightlight.

A soft sound came from Ron's room. Frowning, George took a step toward the door.

Someone hissed from the stairwell. When George turned, Ron was coming up the stairs, holding up a hand to signal for him to stop.

"Harry's in there." Ron mouthed the words more than spoke them.

George backed up a few paces, confused. Terry and Harry were meant to be sharing Ginny's bedroom. Ginny had taken the attic. George would have swapped with her in an instant. The attic might be cramped, and the ghoul might bang on things long into the night, but it had to be better than listening to the muffled screams and whimpers that came through the floorboards.

George tilted his chin up in greeting as Ron reached the landing. No sounds coming from Ron's room right now, so he didn't risk speaking until Ron was closer. "All good, mate?"

Ron shrugged. His eyes were pools of darkness in the low light, but George knew they weren't much better in daylight. No one at the Burrow was sleeping well. Maybe Harry was in Ron's room because it's where he'd always slept before everything had become so screwed up and it felt safer than Ginny's room.

"Is Harry–" George began to ask but something creaked in Ron's room and they both froze.

George watched the chink in the doorway, hardly daring to breathe. The nightlight didn't do much to illuminate what little George could see through the gap. On the bed, the mound of blankets shifted, as though trying to shake off an attack.

Another creak. George squinted. Someone was in the chair by the bed, leaning forward. Their face was in shadow, but it couldn't be Terry Boot. George had just seen him downstairs. A swathe of something emerald-green hung down the chest. A Slytherin scarf… George swore under his breath.

Ron made a sharp cutting motion for George to shut up. Even if Malfoy was in the room, Harry was still asleep – and for once he wasn't having a nightmare. That had to be more important than whatever breech of privacy was going on.

Ron tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he watched the scene. At the top of the stairs, he was closer to the door than George, and could probably see more. He must have been able to see something on Malfoy's face because he dragged a hand through his hair, looking more baffled than infuriated. "So, Harry…" He broke off, shaking his head. "Is Malfoy – Malfoy – does he..?" He choked off as though this was beyond his capacity to understand. "Malfoy  _likes_  Harry?" There was something odd in his voice that George couldn't pin. Something almost like fear.

With Malfoy sitting by Harry's bed, holding his hand as he slept, it was kind of obvious. But Ron had never been the sharpest knife in the drawer.

George nodded. "Since Hogwarts. Since first year at least."

Ron's mouth fell open. "Merlin – that's…" He shook his head again. "Well," he said. "Okay."

After that he never much bothered Malfoy. Kind of treated him like he belonged at the Burrow at Christmas. Even started inviting him to his birthdays. George never asked what it was Ron had seen in Malfoy's face that made him decide to trust Malfoy after everything. Maybe it was the same thing George had seen in Malfoy near the start – that stubborn determination to cling to what he wanted until he got it. Malfoy was tenacious as hell, but his resolution was so firm that sometimes he seemed brittle.

"Do you think we should have cut it off sooner?" asked George. "Should I have, I mean?"

Obviously Harry didn't want Malfoy around – had never wanted him around. George didn't blame him. But once Malfoy had started coming to the Burrow, getting rid of him felt impossible. More so since Molly, Ginny, Charlie and Mill wanted him there.

Ron shook his head. "Probably a bit late now. I kind of thought that Malfoy would get bored of waiting around for Harry." He shrugged as though baffled by Malfoy's resilience.

"That's why you…" George paused, frowning. It did make sense though. Ron had thought Malfoy less attached – or more likely, less insane – than he was and had let things play out after that bedroom scene. Had invited Malfoy to things that Harry would be at, encouraged him along in the hopes of wearing Malfoy out. Making him realise that he wasn't going to have Harry, and he'd have to settle for someone else. "Malfoys don't give up on what they want," said George, voice soft because it sounded commendable, but it was sad if he stopped to think about it.

Ron gave a bark of laughter. "Well, I know that now," he said ruefully. "God." He shook his head. "We should never have let him back after that second Christmas – Well, you should never have let him come at all."

Was Harry that upset at having lost Callum? George thought about the way Callum would joke with Harry, leaning close, mouth quirking in that perfect, bright grin as he whispered into his ear. The way they rode brooms together, in harmony like they knew where the other person was without having to look. Yeah – for an orphan kid, George could imagine that losing that would destroy Harry.

George cleared his throat. "It was Malfoy then, was it? Malfoy did break them up?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "What do you think? Of course it was bloody Malfoy." He didn't sound bitter, angry – or even annoyed. As though he was resigned to Malfoy being Malfoy and to Harry having to live with it.

"I can ask him to leave," said George.

Ron shook his head. "It won't change anything, George. The damage is done. And, let's be honest, Malfoy's not the problem here."

George choked in outrage because obviously Malfoy was the damn problem.

Ron was frowning though. "I never thought…" He cut himself off and shook his head. "Well, maybe it's better this way."

Ron was being very forgiving of Malfoy, all things considered. The stuff Malfoy had done at Hogwarts might have been put down to schoolyard squabbling and forgotten, but the stuff after…


	5. Chapter 5

It wasn't just that he sold the story. By the time the Christmas holidays rolled around, George was almost ready to forgive Malfoy for that because – well, it hadn't seemed to bother Harry all that much. To be fair, not much bothered Harry. Terry Boot was making him batches of Dreamless Sleep potions constantly. And, because Harry couldn't fall asleep in the first place, he was combining them with sleeping draughts. During the day, Harry could almost get by on dulling potions. Half the time George thought that a new Dark Lord could rise, and it wouldn't make much difference to Harry. So stories in the paper didn't faze him.

And it was like Malfoy couldn't handle not being able to faze Harry. That Christmas, everything he did seemed aimed at making Harry notice him any way he could. As though bad attention was better than no attention at all. Which, for Slytherins, it was. With Mill most of the time, bad attention was better than good attention.

And Malfoy had a lot of practice riling Harry. Enough that he still managed it when Harry was half-mad with guilt and regret.

But then guilt and regret were some of the easiest emotions to exploit.

Malfoy might have been okay for the first two days of that Christmas. He helped Terry Boot brew Harry's potions and kind of quietly stayed out of Harry's way. One morning, George caught Malfoy sneaking a new stone into Harry's luggage. A deep green pebble – almost the colour of Harry's eyes – with a splatter of blood-red across the surface. When George held the stone to the light, Malfoy had shrugged, a scowl on his face. "Bloodstone. It's not worth anything." As though he was ashamed of wanting to give Harry something.

For those two days, George was convinced that Malfoy loved Harry. He'd catch Malfoy watching Harry – not the way that Bill sometimes watched Fleur, like he couldn't believe she was with him. Draco watched Harry the way that the dragons watched their eggs during the triwizard tournament – anxious and terrified and ready to slaughter anything that touched him.

Then on the third day something changed – George had gone over the incident again and again in his mind and had never been able to figure out why.

Draco had never been particularly nice to Harry. He'd spent the first Christmas spilling tea on him, kicking his Firebolt out of the way when it was propped in the front entrance and throwing things at him. Nothing too malicious. And George kind of got it. Harry did his best to ignore Malfoy, and the one thing that Malfoy couldn't stand was to be ignored.

During second Christmas, it was like Malfoy managed to give Harry two days to pull himself together before deciding that it was time for Harry to pay attention to him again. Only, during second Christmas, Harry's attention was so much harder to get than it had been at Hogwarts, or on that first Christmas.

But, George reflected, it wasn't as though Malfoy had started off small. He thought back once again to how the situation had played out.

They'd been at the kitchen table. Not eating – Terry Boot had set up a cauldron to brew the first batch of dulling potion and Harry wanted to be near him. Ron was there – and Hermione – both pale and quiet. One or the other had been within easy reach for Harry since he'd killed Voldemort.

Malfoy was there too, obviously; half watching Harry and half making sure that Terry was making the potion correctly.

He straightened as Terry measured a shimmery liquid from a vial. "Dreamless Sleep potion doesn't require dragon tears."

Terry glanced at him. "I'm making a dulling potion," he said. "Dreamless Sleep isn't doing enough."

Malfoy settled back in his seat, glancing across at Harry.

Terry smiled at Harry, reaching out to stroke the back of his right hand along his jaw. "When you start using magic again, I can teach you to make this yourself."

Eyelids lowering, Harry leaned his face into the caress. "I'm never using magic again." His voice was raw – kind of pained. A tone that had been in his voice too often lately. He hadn't touched his wand since the final battle, and George was starting to believe that he may give up on magic altogether.

Malfoy watched the exchange through narrowed eyes. "The Daily Prophet didn't blame you for letting your back-up team die," he said, voice sharp as a blade. "Generous of them, isn't it?"

The breath caught in George's throat. If Malfoy had hexed him, he couldn't have stunned him so effectively. The others reacted with as much numb disbelief. Terry dropped the ladle in the cauldron, brows shooting up. Hermione choked, eyes going to Harry. Ron froze, face a mask of horror.

Only Harry responded, pushing Terry's hand away and turning on Malfoy with a furious snarl. "Shut it, Malfoy."

Malfoy leant back in his seat with an unpleasant grin. It occurred to George that Malfoy may have made that statement just to get Terry to stop touching Harry – or to stop Harry from looking so content with it.

"Is it not generous of them?" Malfoy sounded furious, but his expression was mild as he tilted his head to the side, running a thumb over his lower lip as he considered. "More than generous when you consider that your whole team didn't die." He nodded to Hermione and Ron. "The two of them that you're friends with made it through. Interesting turn of events. Miraculous, you might say."

Harry hadn't used magic since he'd defeated Voldemort. Even so, George was sure that if he had his wand he'd cast an Unforgivable on Malfoy. His shoulders were tight with supressed fury – mouth a hard line. "Shut your mouth, Malfoy."

Malfoy smiled, a pleased curl of the mouth, like this was what he'd been aiming for. "Take your dulling potion, Potter. It's just an observation."

It got worse – and it got worse quickly. No longer content to be a minor nuisance, Malfoy began challenging Harry every chance he got, getting crueller every time.

Within two days of it beginning, most of the Weasleys started running interference. On the third morning, Malfoy had to be sporting a mass of dark bruises under his robes, but he didn't let up.

Then he sabotaged Terry Boot's potions, and the one thing that had been holding Harry's sanity together snapped.

It took Terry almost sixty-two hours to figure out he hadn't screwed the potions up, the ingredients hadn't been sub-par, the cauldron hadn't retained traces of contaminants. It was the longest sixty-two hours of George's life.

Harry didn't sleep for the first fifty-three hours. After that he'd lose consciousness in fitful bursts and wake screaming.

He might not have touched his wand since the final battle, but magic started sparking from him at random, like bursts of electric fire.

Somewhere in the sixty-first hour, Hermione sent Ron to bed and tried to talk to Harry. It was almost midday but Mill was sleeping too – she'd stayed up with Harry through the night.

With the insane magical bursts going on around him, George was kind of glad she was out of the way. He stayed close by, because giving Harry the impression that anyone was scared of him would be kind of catastrophic, but it was obvious that Harry didn't have much control over what was going on.

"Harry." Hermione's voice was flat and cool – a tone that George was pretty sure she'd picked up from Pansy. "This is making things worse."

Harry laughed – a kind of hollow sound that reminded George painfully of the way Sirius Black laughed when confronting old memories in Grimmauld Place.

"Believe me, it's going to get worse, Hermione." Even Harry's voice was different – almost a threat.

Hermione's brows lowered. "Terry's working on sorting your potions out. But right now, you need to cope without them. That means you have to get some sleep." This tone was an old one – the one she used when bullying Ron or Harry to do their homework.

Harry barely glanced at her; turning instead to Terry.

Looking up from his potions ingredients, he shook his head. "I can brew more potion, but not until I find out what went wrong with the last batch. If it was something serious, it could hurt you."

"I don't care."

Terry blinked. "It might kill you, Harry."

Chin tilting up, Harry said, "I. Don't. Care."

The door slammed open and Malfoy strode in, clumps of snow clinging to his ruffled hair. He stopped dead when he saw how full the kitchen was and glanced around, eyes narrowing. "What in the hell, Potter? It's bloody Christmas. If you're planning on mooning around and ruining a perfectly good holiday, can you at least lock yourself in your room and spare us?" He sounded so ridiculously put out by the whole thing that George had to smother a smile.

When Fred stepped forward, looking as though he planned to thrash Malfoy a little more thoroughly than usual, Malfoy held up his hands.

"I'm only looking for food. Merlin, I wouldn't stay in here for all the gold in Gringotts." He went to fridge and pulled out a selection of left-overs before slamming back outside with them.

Odd. With a crisis like this on hand, George would have thought that Malfoy would want to stick around either to make it worse, or see if he could use it as the beginning of a courting ritual.

"How long before you can make new potion?" Harry asked Terry.

Terry poured something into his cauldron. "As soon as I test the…"

"You can't keep taking these potions, Harry," said Hermione. "Not forever. Maybe you should take this break as a chance to…"

Terry lifted his head to frown at her. "These potions aren't dangerous. There aren't any long-term side effects."

Hermione's cheeks flushed. "No," she agreed, forehead creasing. "I mean…"

That was weird too. Terry Boot might have been Ravenclaw, but Hermione had always surpassed him in potions. Draco Malfoy too, which George wouldn't have known if Malfoy didn't take every opportunity to rub it in. Still, Terry was the one who'd been making this potion for months. Stood to reason that he'd know the side-effects better than Hermione.

"Harry," said Hermione. "Please forget the potion and try to sleep."

"Huh," said Terry, swirling the contents of his cauldron. "Someone's tampered with the lining of the cauldron."

A spark of fire flashed; searing the seat that Harry was sitting on and making Terry fall back with a yelp of alarm. Hermione leant in instead, reaching for Harry's arm.

"Harry!"

He shook her off and slammed out of the door Malfoy had just exited.


	6. Chapter 6

Swearing, George jumped to his feet.

"Why would anyone sabotage a Dreamless Sleep potion?" asked Terry, seemingly unaware of the danger.

George was already halfway to the door and ignored him.

He got through the door. It slammed shut behind him. Harry was marching across the snow, heading for a copse of trees where Malfoy and Ginny were sitting on a picnic rug.

Thank Christ Malfoy was with Ginny. It meant that Harry couldn't just Avada Kedavra him on the spot. If Avada Kedavra even worked with wandless magic.

Malfoy glanced up, saw Harry coming and stretched lazily before rising.

Harry shoved him back with both hands. Magic sparked around them, wild with the scent of sulphur. "What is your problem?"

Scowling, Malfoy slapped his hands aside. "Right now? You are, Potter."

Ginny swore and climbed to her feet. "What the hell, Harry?"

"Agreed," said Malfoy. "What the actual hell?"

Harry twisted a fist into the front of Malfoy's robes. "You sabotaged Terry's cauldron!"

Ginny spun to him. "You did what?"

"Why do people keep telling me things that I already know?" Malfoy caught Harry's wrist with two fingers and a thumb and tried to shake it free.

Harry shook him. "Why? Why the hell would you do that?"

George had no idea whether Harry couldn't see the wandless magic spurting out, or if he didn't care about it. "Terry can borrow my cauldron," said George. Calming Harry was the most important thing right now. They could yell at Malfoy later. "He can brew you a new potion."

Malfoy jerked free and backed up a couple of paces. His mouth tugged into a smirk. "I might have sabotaged the potions ingredients too."

George nearly swore at him. Was he honestly so determined to have Harry's attention that he'd risk those insane bouts of wandless magic that it was obvious Harry had no control over?

Harry's attention snapped back to Malfoy. He stalked closer, but Ginny stepped into his path, pushing him back with one hand.

"Harry, stop. You're not the only one suffering here, okay?"

Behind her, Malfoy raked a hand through his hair and glared at Harry. "I'd suffer a lot less if you'd leave me the hell alone, Potter."

It hadn't occurred to George before – probably because Malfoy was such a brightly persistent pest – but Malfoy had darkened eyes the same as the rest of the Burrow's current occupants. He was dressed and groomed as impeccably as ever, but his skin was paler than usual with an almost sickly undertone. It was a bit of a shock that the war had taken something out of someone as unflappable and self-centred as Malfoy.

"Did you tamper with the potions ingredients?" Harry growled.

Malfoy tilted his head to stare down his nose at him. "Ask your boyfriend. It will only take him, what, another sixty hours to figure it out?"

Magic flared up and Ginny snapped out a spell to deflect it.

Malfoy leant against the garden wall and grinned at Harry. "You need to learn to control your temper."

Another flare – Harry tamped this one down before it reached Ginny. "Tell me, Malfoy."

"No." Malfoy pushed himself off the fence and came forward. "I don't think so. I think I like how ridiculously weak you are without a stupid potion to lean on. I think I'd like to keep you this way."

"Malfoy," snapped George.

Malfoy grinned again. "You used to be The-Boy-Who-Lived. Look how far you've fallen."

Magic flashed. Ginny only just got her wand up in time, casting a shielding charm across herself and Malfoy.

"Jesus Christ, Malfoy! Stop messing around and tell me if the ingredients are safe!"

Malfoy shoved him sharply. "No! They're not safe, okay? Now back the hell off, Potter. I have better things to do than be subjected to your miserable presence."

"Like sabotaging the thing that was making me less miserable?" snapped Harry.

George holstered his wand. Harry might be running on empty in the sleep department and full in the unused magic stores department but, Christ, it was Harry. He wasn't about to hurt Malfoy. He hadn't yet, and he'd had ample cause.

Malfoy threw his hands up. "Why not? Everyone else has to be miserable! Why not you?"

"No one has to be miserable – No one – Jesus, why am I trying to explain this to you? You can take dulling potions, Malfoy. You can take Dreamless Sleep. Hell, I'll share mine with you if you want–"

"You fucking prat," Malfoy almost spat at him.

"Why not?" Harry's jaw set in stubborn determination. "Why not make things easier?"

"My parents are in Azkaban, Potter. You think I should dope myself out of caring about it rather than do everything in my power to get them out?" Malfoy swore, jerking away as Harry grabbed at his cloak.

Instead Harry dragged him forward. "What do you… You're trying to get them out?"

Malfoy stilled, eyes widening the way they did when someone said something unforgivable to him. "Obviously." The one word came out cracked and arctic, like it was all that Malfoy could manage without either breaking down or killing something.

"You're not – You can't be serious?"

"We're working on it together." Ginny's voice was flat – the same tone Molly used when warning someone that they had better shut up if they knew what was good for them. "Narcissa does not belong in Azkaban."

Harry shot her a withering glance. "And Lucius?"

Despite her first year and the diary and the Tom Riddle nightmares that George knew Ginny sometimes still had; she didn't flinch. "He does. But Draco doesn't want him there." She spoke as though what Malfoy wanted mattered more than the law.

Harry shoved Malfoy back as though he couldn't bear to touch him. "It will never happen. I will block any move you make to free them."

"You'll try, Potter."

"You think the Ministry will ever listen to you above me? Any power your father had is gone. Just–" He dragged a hand through his hair, eyes dark with misery. When he spoke again, his voice was softer; more of a plea. "Christ, give up, Malfoy. Your parents are where they belong."

Malfoy smiled, bright as sunlight. "So are yours."

A storm of magic erupted. Fire and smoke billowed out, engulfing Harry and Malfoy, and throwing Ginny back several feet. She landed hard. Swearing, she raised her wand. She didn't bother getting up, slamming counter-curses against the wall of magic rushing at her instead.

Pulling his wand, George flicked up a spell that dragged her to him. Fire burst across the space she'd been moments before.

The storm of magic flared. Snow melted and the ground beneath it began to burn, acrid waves of smoke pouring out. It was growing, expanding across the Weasley garden. George grabbed Ginny's arm, tugging her toward the house.

She pulled back. "Malfoy's in there!" Then she was slamming her magic against Harry's like she thought there was a hope in hell of stopping him. Her magic didn't even slow his.

The mass of magic was mere feet away when it fizzled out; dying more quickly than it had sprung up. Remnants of smoke clung in the air. Ginny pushed through it, waving her wand and casting dispersing spells.

The smoke cleared. Both Harry and Malfoy were still on their feet. Almost sagging with relief, George went forward.

Malfoy was ruffled; robes askew, coated in ash and torn at the sleeves. But he didn't look as though he'd been hurt. Considering what he'd said to Harry, that was kind of a miracle.

With a final withering glare, Harry turned and stalked back to the house. Ginny didn't spare him a glance, going straight to Malfoy.

George grabbed Harry's arm as he walked past. "You alright, mate?"

Harry dragged in a breath. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. "Make sure I didn't hurt him." An infinitesimal pause, before he lowered his head. "Please. I can't – If he says anything else like that…"

George let Harry's arm go and looked across at Malfoy. Ginny was with him, wand still out. As George walked closer, he realised that she was mending Malfoy's robes. Which meant that nothing worse had been damaged.

"Geez." George reached out and pulled Malfoy into a rib-crushing hug. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Malfoy flailed weakly; pushing George away and slapping at him before smoothing his robes down. "Why are you touching me? Stop it at once!"

It occurred to George that Malfoy had no idea how close he'd come to being seriously hurt, or dying. With the lack of sleep, and constant guilt from the final battle, it was obvious that Harry hadn't had any control over his magic.

"He ruined my favourite robes." Malfoy tugged at his collar, mouth tight with annoyance. "Granted, I bought them in the hopes that when he saw me in them he'd ruin them. But in a very different way, if you catch my drift."

Ginny groaned, shoving him in the shoulder. "Malfoy, we've talked about your tendency to overshare."

Malfoy pouted. "It took me forever to choose these robes. Pansy assured me that they would make any hot-blooded male want to rip them off."

"Parkinson was probably trying to get you out of the robe store," Ginny pointed out. "Especially if you're saying you were there for ages. When I went with you that one time, you were there for two hours and when I complained, you told me you were just getting started."

Malfoy blinked at her. "Obviously," he said. "Two hours is nothing."

He actually wasn't concerned by the magical backlash. Harry had been afraid that he'd hurt Malfoy, but Malfoy didn't seem to think he'd ever been in danger.

It was – odd. Thinking back on it, George didn't know why things had fallen out like that. Hermione hadn't even come outside to make sure Harry didn't hurt Malfoy – while Ginny had been more worried about Malfoy than anyone else.

Back then George hadn't been sleeping well enough to feel anything much about the situation except relief that no one died during all of that wild magic. And, in the following days, surprise that the incident actually made Harry give up on using potions as a crutch. Looking back on it now, there were things that didn't quite add up.

"You don't have a problem with Malfoy anymore?" George asked Ron.

His eyes widened in surprise. "I haven't for a while. Seems a bit stupid, all things considered. And I think – I think we need to keep him around, you know?"

George had no idea, but he shrugged. "Good chat, mate," he said and let himself back out of the room.

Ginny was on the landing. She smiled, eyes bright with laughter. "Harry's been back two minutes and he's already about to explode."

"Hilarious," said George dryly.

She grinned in agreement. "Where's Malfoy? He hasn't even said hello, the git. Is he having another meltdown somewhere? I hope he is."

George didn't comment on how much Pansy and Mill had brushed off on Ginny in the past few years, because he kind of approved, and he didn't want her to take it the wrong way.

"He's having his usual monthly crisis," he said instead. "Are you heading up to the attic?"

Ever since Harry had begun to bring boyfriends to the Burrow for Christmas, Ginny had moved to the attic. It had bothered her the first time, but she didn't seem to mind it now. She shrugged agreement. "Is Malfoy in with Ron?"

A fair assumption. Malfoy and Ron tended to share a room as neither of them had a partner. George shook his head. "Mill's dealing with his latest tantrum."

"Huh." Ginny's face creased in disappointment. She shrugged finally. "I guess I'll catch him later."

George had never understood how Ginny got along so well with Malfoy. He was so unpleasant whenever Harry was around, and when Ginny was younger, she'd worshipped Harry.

"Why didn't you kick Ron and Malfoy into the attic when Harry and Terry Boot took your room?" asked George. He was pretty sure that Ginny had let Ron and Malfoy keep the bedroom for Malfoy's sake, not for Ron's. It was Ron's friend who was taking over her bedroom after all.

She blinked at him. "It wouldn't have made any difference. It would have been the same wall between us."

"What?" asked George.

Ginny frowned at him. "You know why I didn't want to sleep in the attic, right?"

"Because it was cramped and musty and because of the ghoul?" asked George.

"Uh – you're the one who's scared of the ghoul. You and Percy. I love the ghoul. No. I didn't want to sleep in the attic because the final battle screwed Malfoy up like crazy and I could not sleep through the god-damn screaming."

That – George blinked. That was probably something Mill should have told him. Did Mill even know? He considered quickly. Her and Pansy telling everyone to go and staying behind with Malfoy and Voldemort's corpse after the final battle. Mill being completely unconcerned by the Daily Prophet article, except to tell George to try to consider Malfoy's perspective. Yes, she knew. She just hadn't been interested in sharing. Which might have meant that she couldn't be bothered, or that she thought that he should be smart enough to guess on his own, or that she was protecting Malfoy. Hell, with Slytherins it was probably a combination of the three.

"Is he better now?" asked George.

"We're all better now," said Ginny. "I mean to varying degrees. He's doing better than some of us – not as well as others."

George nodded. So that was the difference. Where George and Ginny had almost always agreed before, she whole-heartedly sided with Malfoy in any dispute and George sided with Harry.

Even Ron's acceptance of Malfoy made more sense. George had been listening to Harry's nightmares and Ron and Ginny had been stuck with Malfoy's.

If Malfoy's had been anywhere near as bad as Harry's, it would have been impossible not to empathise with him.


	7. Chapter 7

Mill was working on a new hex when George went back to their room.

"Parkinson's here," he told her, picking through the tattered remnants of her target practice objects to get to the bed. Chunks of something silver sparkled against the floor. "Is that the vase your mum gave us for Christmas?"

Mill gave him a hard look. "I hated it, Weasley. It had to go."

George wasn't exactly objecting. The vase had been shaped like a naked Cupid and had been magicked to pee in a continuous stream. If Mill hadn't found a way to get rid of it, George would have.

"Are you going to tell her you broke it?" He'd learnt pretty early that Mrs Bulstrode liked to horrify people just as much as her daughter did. And Mill was completely incapable of showing that her mother had horrified her. So the more wild Mrs Bulstrode's methods became, the more nonchalant Mill acted. Which was how they'd ended up with a handcrafted peeing Cupid, which Mrs Bulstrode assured them only expressed genuine urine. George had been afraid to enquire whose.

"I'll tell her that an unfortunate work-related accident cut our dear Cecil's life short."

It wasn't technically a lie if Mill was inventing a new hex when she'd blown the vase up, but there were bigger issues to address. "You named that monstrosity?"

Mill rolled her eyes at him. "Each handcrafted Cupid comes with its own name and birthday. In case we want to celebrate."

George shuddered. "Okay. Let's pretend Cecil never existed. I would have been happier had he never entered our lives."

Mill nodded her agreement.

George leant in the doorway and studied her. "Is there a reason you didn't tell me that the war screwed Malfoy up?"

"I couldn't be bothered," said Mill. "And then when you got really mad at him, it was kind of funny so I let it go." She tilted her head. "Did you only just find out about that now?"

Shrugging wryly, George grinned. "It seems like I'm the last one to find out."

"Yeah," said Mill. "Kind of. I mean Fred might not know yet. And I don't think Fleur or Bill really figured it out. But I assume everyone else knows."

"Why didn't you tell me? I was awful to him that second Christmas."

"He didn't need you to be nice to him, Weasley."

Maybe not. But it couldn't have hurt. "You teased him just as badly that Christmas as any other," he pointed out.

Mill shrugged. "He didn't need me to be nice to him either."

She stretched and pushed herself up off the bed. "If Pansy's here, I think I'll see if she wants to head to Diagon Alley."

George considered the comment. They'd been at the Burrow three days and weren't due to go home for another four. If he was honest with himself, he was starting to get a little stir crazy. "Maybe we should ask around. Fred and Gin will likely want to come along."

Mill shrugged. "I don't care who comes, but we're going to Florean Fortescue's."

George might have pointed out that it was mid-winter, but had discovered long ago that little things like snow and frost did nothing to hamper Mill's interest in ice-cream. "I have no desire to impede upon your Fortescue happiness."

#

Diagon Alley was a bustle of last minute Christmas shoppers. Mill elbowed her way through the crowd with casual ease. People tended to make way for their group anyway when Harry was with them. They crowded into the entrance of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour and looked around. Pretty much deserted, which was nothing unusual at this time of year.

Tracey Davis waved at them from a booth in the corner. Beside her, Daphne Greengrass leant her elbows on the table and shot them a disapproving look, as though she could not believe that Mill and Pansy were still insisting on dating Gryffindors. They were both wrapped up in bright green scarves, but had mountainous sundaes on the table in front of them.

Ignoring them, Mill went across to check out the assortment of ice cream flavours.

George glanced back to make sure that Harry and Malfoy weren't fighting before following her.

"We're swapping again, Malfoy?" Ginny rubbed a gloved hand across the frosted glass and peered at the display.

Malfoy's gaze slid to Harry barely perceptibly before going back to Ginny. "Alas, yes. I haven't had any better offers."

Ginny laughed. "Have you tried the Fruit Tingle?"

Malfoy made a face. "That sounds very Muggle."

"It is Muggle," Ginny agreed. "Let's do it."

George left them to squabble over their ice-cream flavours and went back to Mill. "Anything exciting?"

It took an inordinate amount of time to buy ice-cream with Slytherins. George didn't know whether it was all Slytherins, or just the ones he was personally acquainted with. They all wanted as many flavours as they could get in a sitting so they tended to team up with each other and share two sundaes between themselves so as to get six different scoops rather than three.

One would think that in getting so many flavours, there would be less cause to be picky. But one would be wrong. It took Malfoy and Ginny ten full minutes and three taste-tests to settle on their sundaes. Pansy and Granger were about the same. George and Mill took four minutes. Harry managed to make a choice in about twenty seconds.

Once they had their ice-creams, they slipped into the booths around Tracey and Daphne.

Daphne levelled a cool look from Mill to Pansy. "Do you really have to invite the Gryffindors along every time you leave the house?"

Licking her spoon, Tracey made a sound of agreement. "Just because you can stand to be seen in public with them, it doesn't mean that we can."

"Terrible taste in life partners," agreed Malfoy cheerfully.

"You spent your formative years in a dungeon," George pointed out. "I don't think you can talk about good taste or social reputation."

The Slytherins swirled their sundaes in contemplative silence.

"They're not actually coming shopping with us?" asked Tracey. "I don't think that I could actually stand that."

"At least they didn't bring both the clones," said Daphne. "So embarrassing for your family to have to resort to two for the price of one in children as well as in merchandise."

Ginny snorted on a spoonful of butterscotch and raised her hand for a congratulatory high-five. "That was good. How long did it take you to come up with that?"

"I didn't even know that two for the price of one existed until a week ago," said Daphne, with a shudder that clearly meant she wished that she had remained so happily oblivious. "And as soon as I saw the sign, I thought of you, Weasley."

"We should have tried the marmalade," said Malfoy, poking his spoon at the mass of cream and nuts atop his sundae as he eyed Harry's.

Ginny arched her eyebrows at him. "No, thank you. Last time, I put aside my good judgement and tried the catnip because of you. Never again."

"It wasn't that bad," protested Malfoy. "A little minty."

"Barely minty," corrected Ginny. "And Merlin only knows what they did to infuse the catnip into the cream, but when we got home I was assaulted by Pudding and Brutus and the ghoul – even the bloody Garden Gnomes suddenly began rubbing up on my ankles."

Malfoy turned his nose up at her. "They were showing you affection. You just didn't recognise it because you get so little."

Ginny laughed and shoved him in the shoulder. "Pudding tried to eat your face," she said.

"I have a very attractive face," Malfoy agreed. "It makes lesser creatures jealous. Given your face, you would also not understand that. And it has nothing to do with marmalade. Marmalade sorbet would not cause those problems." He glanced mournfully at Harry's sundae once more.

Harry scowled, but he pushed his sundae closer. "It's not that good. Try it if you want."

It was kind of painful how quickly Malfoy's face lit up at that. And sure, the ice-cream offer would account for some of it; but the rest of it – most of it – was that Harry was the one offering.

Leaning forward, Malfoy dipped his spoon into the amber mix – a quick, deft flick, as though he was afraid that Harry would rescind the offer. He settled back into his chair, a curl of contentment on his mouth as he lapped the spoon clean.

"Hm." He tilted his head to the side, eyes glowing softly, as though the marmalade had been everything he'd hoped for and more. "You're right. It's not that good." He glanced at Harry, an imperious tilt to his chin. "Let me try again. It might be an acquired taste."

Harry sighed. "I don't think you can acquire a taste in two spoons." But he didn't pull his sundae back, and when Malfoy leant forward, he flicked it a little closer.

Pansy's eyes narrowed as Malfoy took the second spoonful. "Okay." She pushed her chair back. "We better head if we're going to get our shopping done in time."

Malfoy glanced up. His face fell as Daphne, Tracey and Hermione began to gather their things.

George shot Pansy a sharp look. Considering that she and Mill were dating Gryffindors, it made no sense that she was so against Malfoy dating Harry. It wasn't as though they could really think that Harry would hurt Malfoy. He was sharing ice-cream, for Merlin's sake.

George nudged Mill in the ribs. She'd never been as calculated as Pansy. If she saw how upset Malfoy was at the prospect of the party breaking up, she'd intervene.

Mill dropped her spoon into her empty dessert glass and looked around. "Are you really going out in all of that?" she asked, motioning to the crowd of people jostling through the streets outside. She shuddered. "Good luck. I'm going to stay here and have coffee."

"That sounds so much better," agreed George. "Let's do that."

Ginny made a face. "Can't. Sorry." She caught up her scarf and looped it around her neck. "You stay here, Malfoy. I'll drop my shopping back with you from time to time."

Harry glanced at her before shrugging his cloak off and laying it over the back of his chair. "If you've got things to do, Malfoy, I can stay with Gin's shopping."

Ginny creased her nose at him. "Up to you."

"I would like to not babysit bags," said Malfoy. "But I would like to have coffee. As strong and black as my soul."

"Your usual cappuccino, then?" asked Harry. "With a shot of caramel, like ten sugars and extra froth? I'll get it." He turned and headed for the counter before Malfoy could reply.

Malfoy glanced after him, grinned and wriggled back into his seat. Which was fair; Harry was being perfectly civilised. George might have mentally added 'for a change' but, really, the only time Harry wasn't civilised to Malfoy was when Malfoy was being an unbearable twat.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Honestly," she said, voice just a little scathing. She turned on her heel and left Florean Fortescue's. The other girls followed, leaving Mill, George and Malfoy at the table.

"She's probably right," Mill told Malfoy, stirring the last of George's chocolate fudge into his scoop of butterbeer. "You're just prolonging your pain."

George shook his head. "You're so pessimistic." Odd, because she wasn't usually. She could be ornery, but generally she had a glass half full view of life. He leant across to kiss her cheek. "You want your usual?"

She hummed agreement.

George had just reached the counter when something crashed outside – so loudly that the floors shuddered.

George spun, automatically searching for Mill. She glanced at him, shrugged and motioned to the window.

A burst of flame shot up the street outside. Mill scraped up the last spoon of ice-cream as Malfoy ran toward the door, wand in hand.

George twisted, glancing toward the glass-paned front door – Harry was already outside, firing spells toward the source of the fire. A second wall of flame rushed at him. Malfoy slammed out a spell. Florean's door tore away from its hinges, flinging out to shield Harry.

The flame lasted longer this time, raising putrid plumes of smoke to the air. When it died, the door was a blackened mess – half disintegrated under the heat. The half that was left had been enough. Harry rose from behind the remnants of his improvisational shield. He shook ash from his jumper as Malfoy walked out into the street.

Screams were coming from somewhere close by.

George swore. Sparing one last glance for Mill, he headed outside.

Wishbone Lane was a mess. Torn up cobblestones and roofing tiles littered the ground. Half the storefronts were blackened.

And there, amongst the debris, stood a dragon. It was easily ten-foot-tall with claws the size of daggers tearing up the street.

Someone screamed and the dragon swivelled toward the sound, letting loose a stream of smoke. A rusted iron collar was clamped around its neck; two broken chains trailing from it. It had to be the Gringotts vault dragon. The scales weren't right – lacked the lustre and colour they would have, had the dragon been getting proper sunlight.

Harry scooped up a piece of broken cobblestone and threw it toward the creature. "We need to get it out of here!" he yelled. "How the hell did a Ukrainian Ironbelly get into Diagon Alley in the middle of Christmas?"

The clatter of stone had the intended effect and the dragon spun back to stare at Harry.

Malfoy swore and body slammed them both into a nearby doorway as George threw himself backwards. A spray of fire engulfed the place they had just been. The piles of snow up the lane turned to mush. George scrambled away from the heat, searching the thick smoke for signs of Malfoy or Harry.

Something moved further down Wishbone Lane – something swathed in apricot robes. George's hand clenched on his wand. All the wizards nearby should have Disapparated to safety – what the hell was someone still doing at the end of the lane?

A burst of wind swept by, pulling the robes sharply to the left. At least two small children cowered in the shadow of the wizard. Fuck. Apparating was out of the question then.

"Harry!" George yelled. They needed a plan, and they needed one fast. George wasn't ready to resort to a Killing Curse; not on a creature that was terrified and trying to escape.

"I see them." Harry's voice was distinct, but George couldn't see him through the smoke. "I'll draw the dragon away. Malfoy will clear a path for me. George, you get them to safety." He sounded calm, as though this situation didn't merit alarm.

Malfoy didn't say anything, but it was clear from Harry's tone that he knew that Malfoy would complete any task Harry gave him.

It might have worked if the wizard down the lane – half-blind from smoke – hadn't raised his wand and fired off a volley of hexes in the direction of the dragon.

With a roar of rage – or fear – the dragon threw itself forward. The earth trembled as the creature's forepaws hit the cobblestones.

George had time to throw up a shielding charm before he got caught in the crossfire. "Harry!" If one of those spells had hit Potter, they were screwed. George looked around, flinching against the barrage of hexes. Another gust of wind slammed through the street, cold as ice. It cleared the smoke.

On the other side of the lane, Harry had a tethering charm locked on the dragon. He was battling to drag the creature back as Malfoy worked a surfeit of spells around him. Protection – if the golden shimmer was anything to go by – protection from the other wizard's hexes and from the dragon's frantically scrabbling claws.

Flicking his wand, George added his tethering charm to Harry's. Hopefully, between the two of them, they could wrangle the dragon out of Wishbone Lane. Buggered if he knew what they'd do with it after that.

The apricot wizard fired off a final curse – loud and bright. The dragon screamed, throwing the full weight of its body against the charms. It shattered George's tether at the first lunge; tearing his wand out of his hand in the process. The charms Harry had conjured held – barely. George could hear the threads of them breaking; sharp like the snap of wire. Still Harry didn't budge; he mended the threads as they broke – spell-work faster than any George had seen before. But not fast enough to keep up with a full-grown Ironbelly.

George grabbed his wand from the cobblestones by his feet and pulled it to himself. Mentally catalogued the curses he knew. Any strong enough to bring a dragon down in one hit? Only one that he could think of. The back of his throat burned with bile at the thought.

Malfoy's protection spells failed at the same time as Harry's tethering charm.

The dragon broke free; surging toward the wizard and children at the end of the lane with a snarl of fury.

Wand still aimed at the dragon, Harry flung out his free hand. His crazy wandless magic dragged Malfoy out of the way just as the dragon's talons came down. Harry ducked between the creature's forepaws, sidestepping the rear talons as the dragon leapt over him. The spiked tail missed him by inches. But the dragon wasn't trying to hurt him. All it wanted was to stop the source of the painful hexes it had been dealt.

As it rushed the apricot wizard, Harry raised a shaking arm, pointing his wand at the creature's back. "Avada–"

Eyes squeezing shut against the sight, Malfoy turned away.

George almost did too. Then, ten metres out from the end of the lane, the dragon froze. Its head went up, spiny crest pricking forward. The huge nostrils flared – once, twice – like it was scenting prey.

It swivelled around, away from the wizard and his children, sniffing loudly as it shuffled up the lane.

George pressed himself against the blackened glass of a pub front as the creature brushed by him. Turning his head, he caught sight of Mill – standing in the middle of the street as though nothing was amiss in the world.

He tried to call her name, but the smoke had ruined his throat. All that came out was a rasp.

The dragon padded up to her and pressed its nose into her outstretched palm. "Hey, there buddy." Her voice was calm and easy. Everything about her seemed calm and easy, but George didn't miss the way her knees locked, as though she was afraid they'd betray her. "Okay." She stroked the dragon's neck with her free hand. "No one's ever going to hurt you again." That sounded more like a threat than a promise.

"Weasley," said Mill, voice still calculated to sooth. "Get your goddamn brother out here. Malfoy, Potter, clear a path for us. No more screaming fucking people. Get us to an abandoned factory or open field or something. This catnip ice-cream isn't going to last long."


	8. Chapter 8

By early afternoon, George had Mill back – albeit a sugary mint-scented Mill sticky with melted ice-cream. He ran a hand down her arm, fingers snagging against the globs of confectionery. The knots in his stomach eased. With Harry and Malfoy's help, she'd managed to lure the dragon to the square at the end of the street. At this time of year, it would usually be awash with people admiring the magical Christmas tree or singing carols; but Harry must have cleared it.

It hadn't taken Charlie long to decide that flying the creature somewhere quieter was the only way to keep both dragon and civilians safe.

George hadn't questioned it. As long as Charlie got the beast away from Mill, he'd go along with anything.

Tossing the empty ice-cream tub aside, she glanced at George. Still perfectly calm, because Slytherins would rather die than let anyone see them ruffled.

Though, a couple of metres away, Malfoy was as ruffled as humanly possible and he wasn't the slightest bit worried about showing it. "Merlin fucking Christ." He doubled up, hands clenched and white against the knees of his trousers. Dragging in a ragged breath, he flicked his head, flipping his hair out of furiously narrowed eyes. He glared at Harry, as though somehow Harry was the source of this traumatic event. "We're not meant to be in danger when we go shopping! Christmas fucking shopping! With ice-cream – and coffee… We're not – That's not meant to be a life-threatening experience for fuck's sake!"

Mill glanced at George, her mouth quirking into a casual grin. The kind of casual that meant she was smug as hell over the fact that she was handling this better than Malfoy. The knots in George's stomach unravelled completely. Running a hand through his hair, he grinned back at her.

"We can still have coffee," George told Malfoy.

Malfoy scowled at him. "That's not the point!" He dropped his head and swore for a bit; his uneven breathing making the words come out jerky.

Harry shot George a warning look and reached out to touch Malfoy's shoulder. "You can swear at the world later, Malfoy. Right now, you need to focus on breathing." His tone was soothing – kind of the same as Mill's had been when she'd been talking the dragon down.

"I can multitask!" exclaimed Malfoy – at least, George was fairly sure that was what he was trying to say. It came out with several syllables replaced with wheezes and sounded more like 'Ikke mult ask'.

"Clearly." Harry frowned at Mill. "Did you want to step in here?"

She was licking melted ice-cream from her palm, and evidently did not. "I've saved the day once already, Potter."

His mouth pulled into a hard line but he stayed with Malfoy, rubbing soothing circles on his shoulder and speaking to him quietly. It was proof – if anyone needed any – that Malfoy really didn't deserve Harry.

Mill tilted her head to look George over, mouth tugging in amusement. "So how does it feel to be the boyfriend of the girl who out-savioured the saviour of the wizarding world?"

He laughed. "You expect me to be more impressed by this than I am by the fact that you can actually read?"

Creasing her nose, she leant into his chest; pushing up on her toes to kiss him. She tasted like catnip and soot. George hooked an arm around her, drawing her closer.

Something flashed; bright enough to temporarily blind him. Blinking away the glare, he drew back from Mill and looked around.

A dozen paces away stood a young man with light hair, and oversized glasses that still weren't big enough to conceal his earnest expression. Something about him was familiar – and that camera strapped around his neck… Fuck. George's eyes narrowed. "Colin Creevey."

Mill stepped away from George, her brows arching in surprise. "Why are you taking photos of us?"

Neither George nor Mill sounded inviting, but Creevey's face lit up in delight. He'd gotten taller – filled out, but that face was just as creepy as ever. "I'm with the Daily Prophet." He wiped a hand on his robes and offered it to George.

Shooting a cringing glance at Mill, he shook it as briefly as politely possible. "Again, why the photos?"

"Well, you just saved Diagon Alley from the Gringott's dragon," said Creevey, as though it were obvious. Which, after the fact, it kind of was. Noticing Harry, Creevey waved at him, before turning back to Mill and George. "Did you want to conduct the interview here; or go inside somewhere? I have some very good ideas for the hero photos. If we took them here, Millicent could sit at your feet and look up at you adoringly. I have some novels at home that employ those iconic sorts of images in their covers, and it really resonates with the people, you know?"

Millicent pushed her face into George's shoulder to muffle her laughter. The hot gasps of her breath escaped his jumper, caressing the underside of his jaw, as she struggled to maintain her composure. George wished he'd thought of it first. Instead, he had to mask his amusement with a fairly robust coughing fit.

As he had been at Hogwarts, Creevey was kind of oblivious to the situation. "You should look into Fen Moss," he suggested. "In my article, 'Christmas Bugs and How to Avoid Them', you'll find that Fen Moss is the most effective remedy for a sore, dry throat. And I think you'll find the advice highly useful." His eyes glazed over dreamily. "I worked very closely with an Herbal Healer on that scoop. We could have been something more than colleagues if it weren't for the ethical barrier of a reporter romancing a consultant."

George blinked at him. "That's not a thing," he said faintly. Mill had begun to tentatively lift her face from George's sleeve, but when she heard the turn the conversation was taking, she changed her mind and buried herself more deeply in the fabric.

Creevey looked surprised before shaking his head. "Ah, yes. I forgot that the general layman doesn't quite grasp the delicacies of this position. Such a different world for you lot. Reporters can't date anyone they meet in a professional capacity. Much like professors can't date their students, mediwitches can't date their patients and Aurors can't date criminals."

When George continued to shake his head in mute disbelief; Creevey nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes, it's true. I found out the hard way. It's difficult when you have so much chemistry with people in professional roles that clash with your love."

By now Mill was sobbing with laughter; her body sagging so heavily against George that he had to hold her up.

"Did the dragon hurt her?" asked Creevey, his face lighting up. "The public love a good burn victim story."

"Ah – I think she's just frightened," said George. "It was a very big dragon. And – um – she's my delicate little flower."

When his delicate little flower almost toppled them both with the force of her mirth; George half hauled her across to the benches that lined the square. He settled her on the seat as Creevey hovered nearby, taking more photos of them.

When Creevey went across to Harry, Mill clutched at George's jumper, eyes wild with excitement. "Oh my God. What the hell does he mean by that story? Did someone actually pretend that they couldn't date him because it was unprofessional?"

George sighed. Once a Slytherin scented even the slightest bit of gossip, they couldn't help themselves. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes," said Mill at once. "I absolutely do. I want to find out who told him this dastardly lie. And I want to make her – or him…" Mill's eyes narrowed as she thought about the fact that this was Creevey they were discussing. "Or  _it_  my new best friend."

George ran his hands through her sticky hair. He doubted that she could be put off at this stage, but he gave it one last try. "Mill, it's Creevey we're talking about.  _Creevey_. Whatever the story, it's bound to be at least ten times more horrifying than we're expecting."

She set her jaw. "I have to know, Weasley."

So they agreed to do the interview.

Creevey was quite astonished when they told him that they'd decided they would allow the interview. "What do you mean allow?" he asked. "You  _owe_  the people this information. It isn't something you can refuse."

"Ah." George scratched the back of his neck. "Morally, you mean."

"No." Creevey looked stunned at his ignorance. "Legally. If you didn't give me your story, I would be forced to take it."

#

They settled on a nearby coffee shop to conduct the interview. Malfoy got over his panic attack when faced with the possibly more intimidating threat of having to be stuck in a cramped space with Colin Creevey.

When Creevey tried to insist that they all be present to give their accounts, Malfoy grabbed Harry's wrist and stuck his nails in. Harry winced and pulled away. "Ah – yeah, we won't be giving an interview."

"Potter will be safely conducting me to a drinking establishment." Malfoy surveyed the magical Christmas tree that had been toppled in the dragon's last act of vandalism and sniffed in disdain. "And he will be making damned sure that no other escaped monsters attack me while I'm happily minding my own business." He kicked aside a cobblestone and stalked off.

Creevey did try to assert his supposed legal authority, but Harry shot him a quelling glare before following Malfoy.

That didn't seem to bother Creevey unduly. He merely led the way to the coffee shop they had decided on.

"So," said Mill, when they had found a table. "You and Moaning Myrtle broke up then?"

"Oh, yes," said Creevey. "It turns out that sexual relationships between the living and the dead are illegal as well. It's all very bureaucratic; these systems of law. And I think it was very upsetting for poor Susan Bones. She was all set to lend Myrtle her body so that we could consummate our love, you know." He shook his head sadly. "But, unfortunately, Padma Patil put together a treatise on the legalities of love between a human and ghost and that ruined that plan." He frowned. "It's strange, because I thought that Padma liked Susan. I would have thought she'd want to help her. But she may have been jealous that I didn't ask  _her_  to lend Myrtle her body."

Mill made a commiserating sound. "That must have been difficult."

Creevey nodded. "Myrtle and I tried to make a go of it. We looked in to challenging the laws, but it became too much for us."

Pulling George's hand onto her lap, Mill squeezed it in glee. "And then to find that you can't date anyone you meet in a professional capacity," she said and clicked her tongue sympathetically.

"And that people in certain professional capacities can't date me!" exclaimed Creevey. "I don't see why I couldn't have dated my professor or my doctor or that Auror that arrested me! How does anyone find love in this day and age?"

Mill slipped off her seat and fell into a messy pile under the table. She tried to smother her laughter but, at this point, it was rather a losing venture.

George stirred another packet of sugar into his coffee. "She has delayed hysterical reactions to danger," he said. "It's very hard on us."

Creevey nodded as though he understood completely. "So, this dragon," he said. "Would you describe the glint in its eye as 'an evil the world has never seen before'?"

"Uh," said George.

"And upon seeing it, would you say, 'I knew my time had come'?"

"Hm," said George.

Waving a dismissive hand, Creevey said, "Forget that. Let's start with how you defeated it."

Reaching under the table, George caught a fistful of Mill's collar and pulled her back into the booth beside him. "Mill will explain," he said.

She nodded and turned to Creevey, looking pensive. "It was very hard," she said. "I had to use a lot of my deductive reasoning skills, and utilise all of the things in my vicinity. And the dragon was right outside, which was terrifying. But I finally thought, you know what? Ice-cream is delicious. I like ice-cream. You like ice-cream. I mean, who doesn't like ice-cream? And then I thought that maybe the dragon hadn't had ice-cream in a long time. So I went to give it some. And obviously it stopped screaming. I mean, I'd stop screaming if I was screaming and someone gave me ice-cream."

Creevey frowned. "You mean you saved the day with ice-cream? And you mean that  _you_  saved the day? Where was Harry?"

"Maybe he was still eating ice-cream," said Mill. "If I hadn't already finished my sundae, that's what I would have been doing." She got up and sidled away to check out the cake display.

Creevey chewed on the end of his quill, frowning at the parchment. "Obviously," he said to George. "Harry must have saved the day. It's noble of you to let your lover think that she contributed in some small way, but you really must give the people the truth."

"Harry distracted the dragon long enough for Mill to get the ice-cream," said George. "But, really, it was the ice-cream."

Creevey nodded to himself. "I'll talk to Draco Malfoy about it. He sold me the story last time, he'll do it again." He shook his head at George. "It's a sad day when Slytherins care more about their moral obligations than Gryffindors."

George frowned at him. "What do you mean Malfoy sold you the story last time? You mean after the final battle?  _You_  got the inside scoop on that story?"

Creevey preened a little. "I did, yes. The very first complete story of what happened behind the scenes that day. Everyone was trying to get someone on the inside to open up and no one could! Until  _I_ tried it."

George leant forward on the table so quickly that Creevey started. "What did you offer him? What did you promise to make him spill like that?"

Creevey smoothed his hair back with a self-satisfied smile. "Money. A lot of it."

"Money? Malfoy has  _money_. What else was there? You can't expect me to believe that Malfoy would sell us out for cash."

"Obviously not just for cash," said Creevey, sounding scandalised at how crass George was being. "He was doing his moral duty. The entire country – no, all of the wizarding world wished to know what had happened in the final battle. And no matter how hard we pushed; Harry Potter gave us nothing. As saviour of the wizarding world, it was his duty to keep us informed and he did not. So Draco Malfoy did."

So Draco Malfoy did. George leant back in his seat, trying to think back to those days. God, it had been a messed up time. And, if George was being honest with himself, he didn't know if his memories of it were all that reliable. He'd tried to forget so much of it. Moral duty. Fuck. Malfoy had screwed up ideas on right and wrong; but maybe Creevey was right for once. Maybe selling the story had been an attempt on Malfoy's part to do the right thing.

"Alright," said George. "Is that all you need for your story then?"

Creevey gave him an assessing sideways glance. "Do you have Millicent's Floo number? We had quite the chemistry back at Hogwarts, you know?"

George stared at him. "You – uh – know that Mill and I are dating, right? I mean, we have been for several years."

Creevey looked miffed. "If you're worried about a bit of healthy competition, your relationship can't be that sturdy. And besides, if you were serious, you would have put a ring on it."

Molly Weasley brought up rings more than enough without Creevey adding to the conversation. George rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I thought you couldn't date her. I mean you're doing a story on her."

"Oh, yes," said Creevey. "But she's Slytherin. Slytherins break the rules. That was the problem back in Hogwarts, you know? That she was Slytherin and I was Gryffindor. Another kind of forbidden love." He shook his head again, sadly, as though the world had somehow conspired to destroy his romantic endeavours.

"Uh – I'm Gryffindor," said George. "Mill and I dated at Hogwarts. We told the school we were dating. It wasn't forbidden."

Creevey blinked at him. "Of course it was forbidden. I just told you; Slytherins break the rules. That's how you got away with it."

"Okay." George had a piercing headache suddenly. "I think maybe it's time for us to go."


	9. Chapter 9

Mill leant against his ribcage as they headed back out into the street. She was still giggling a little from time to time. Huffs of amused laughter that became squeaky when she tried to quell them.

"I'm sorry I left you alone with him," she said. "I couldn't take any more. I thought my sides would burst. And my stomach still feels the way it did when Potter put us through all those hideous workouts before the final battle. I actually think I've strained a muscle in there somewhere."

Three years ago, George would have told her not to worry about leaving him with creepy Creevey. He knew better now. The only reason she was sorry was that she was worried she'd missed out on something entertaining. "You didn't miss anything," he assured her. "He wants your Floo number, but that's a given."

"Because I'm so hot," agreed Mill.

"Because he's desperate," corrected George.

She laughed and he dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

"You didn't find out who told him that he can't date them because they met him through work?" Mill sounded kind of devastated.

"Really? You still wanted to know that after we found out that he tried to romance his arresting Auror?"

Mill made a face. "Don't make me choose between Creevey stories. They all sound good."

George was pretty sure that he never wanted to hear another Creevey story, but Mill seemed so happy that he gave a murmur of agreement. "Home now?"

Creasing her nose, Mill shook her head. "Let's go and find Malfoy. I would like to end this day in a drinking establishment."

George tilted his head to study her. "You're going to spend a week smelling like sour milk if we don't go home soon."

Mill tossed her hair. The effect was somewhat marred by the fact that it was mostly clumped together in an ice-cream mess, but she didn't seem to care. "That is a price I'm willing to pay."

George shrugged. If nothing else, the eau de sour milk might put Creevey off – though George would not bet on it. And he doubted that anyone who had spent more than five minutes in Creevey's company would.

#

They found Harry and Malfoy in the back of a dingy pub near Knockturn Alley; heads bent together over a scrap of parchment.

Malfoy looked up at their approach. "Interview done then? Was it awful? Tell me the most horrific bits."

Mill took the chair by him and stole his drink. "It was  _all_  horrific bits, Malfoy."

Eyes lighting up, Malfoy leant closer, waving George away. "Get us more drinks, Weasley. I have the feeling I'll be needing them."

Harry stretched back in his seat, rolling his eyes a little. Both Harry and Malfoy had frothy pink drinks in ridiculously tall glasses, topped with umbrellas; which was a fair indication that Malfoy had bought the first round.

"Same again?" asked George.

"The usual," said Mill and Malfoy in unison. Slytherins hated to be predictable, so they didn't have a usual. They were just too lazy to make a choice.

George headed for the bar. The staff were busy when he got there so he leant back against the counter and watched Malfoy and Harry. They did have the occasional moment like this – where they were relaxed and almost friendly. It was hard to remember those moments because so many of their interactions were vicious.

At Fred and George's birthday, after that first Christmas, it had almost seemed that they'd actually put their differences aside. Harry was out by then. Not that he was dating Terry Boot yet, but he'd had casual flings with a couple of guys and wasn't too worried about hiding it.

So when Malfoy showed up with Mill – quite late and already slightly drunk – and made one of the usual jokes about Harry's sexual preferences; Harry shrugged it off.

"Making jokes about the fact that I'm gay's kind of old – also kind of intolerant."

Malfoy plucked George's mojito out of his hand and took a swig. George didn't much mind. He reached out to snag Fred's abandoned drink from the table for Mill. She was still in the clown make-up. Had been every time George had seen her. It was driving him mental, and he was pretty sure that was why she kept it up. That and the fact that it freaked the hell out of his family.

Charlie's screams of horror that first morning at the Burrow – when he'd opened the bathroom door fresh out of the shower and come face-to-face with Mill's visage – had probably done lasting damage to George's eardrums.

"The joke wasn't that you were gay, Potter," drawled Malfoy. "The joke was that you were oblivious to the fact. Now I'm going to have to find something else that's painfully obvious to everyone but you." He clicked his fingers and pointed at Harry. "You're also an insufferable jerk. Let's see how long it takes you to figure that out."

Laughing, Harry raised his glass of Firewhiskey. "I can't say I like your chances of convincing me; but good luck to you in your venture."

Malfoy flickered a quick, uncertain smile at him. Like he was surprised by Harry's response, but kind of pleased. "You have the worst taste in drinks of any wizard, ever. Seriously, Potter. Did you just order the drink you thought would upset the Professors most?" He downed the rest of George's mojito and pushed the glass back at George.

Harry glanced at his glass. "I haven't had Firewhiskey before."

"Let's hope to God you never have it again." Malfoy swiped the glass out of Potter's hand and pushed that into George's arms too. "You have it, Weasley. Your lot are accustomed to cheap things."

Mill snorted on her drink.

George slung his free arm around her shoulders. "Yes, we are," he agreed cheerfully.

Mill snorted again, because she didn't much care about being called cheap. So far George hadn't found anything that she minded. Only compliments – and even those she was getting better at taking.

Malfoy glanced at them and evidently decided that trying to insult them further was a useless venture. He turned back to Harry. "I'm going to buy you a decent drink, Potter. I consider it my solemn duty. No saviour of the Wizarding world drinks fucking Firewhiskey."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "You – ah – you think I'm the saviour of the Wizarding world?"

Eyes narrowing, Malfoy looked him up and down. "Well, you're the best we've got, apparently. But tell you what, if you fail, you can go back to drinking your bloody Firewhiskey." He rolled his shoulder lazily and they headed for the bar.

George glanced at Mill. She held what was left of Fred's Screwdriver out to him. He drained it in one gulp. She didn't comment on the Harry/Malfoy development, so he did. "Interesting?"

"It's only vodka and orange," said Mill. "I think we can be more creative than that."

He laughed and slapped her upside the head. "I'm talking about Harry and Malfoy, as you well know. They're… Have they mellowed out at school?" Fred and George were at NEWTs levels and, despite the fact they weren't working as hard as many of their classmates, George hadn't had time to watch the Slytherin/Gryffindor truce too closely.

Mill shrugged. "Potter's gearing up for whatever's coming with the Dark Lord. I don't think there's much time at the end of it for bugging Malfoy."

George glanced toward the bar. Harry was leaning back against it; stretching lightly and smirking at something Malfoy was saying. Malfoy shoved him – a sharp jab to the shoulder. George winced, but Harry threw his head back and laughed – so maybe Malfoy hadn't screwed up for once.

Ruffling a hand through his hair, George looked down at Mill.

She fluttered overladen lashes at him. They kind of looked like a nest of spider legs – like she'd used an Engorgement Charm on them or something. Was it even possible to use that charm so specifically? It probably wasn't safe.

He shook his head. "I fucking hate your makeup."

She chewed her bronze lower lip, mouth tugging downward. "I know. I'm trying to do it better. I learnt how to do fake eyelashes for you."

Ah. That explained that then. Slinging an arm around her, George dragged her into a hug. "I hope you're always this insanely attached to inflicting horror on innocent people."

She pouted. It was obvious at once that she had no experience at pouting. Rather than making her look upset, it made her look as though she'd stuffed peanuts into her cheeks. "I'm not trying to horrify you. I'm trying to turn you on."

For long moments George was laughing too hard to reply. "Oh, yeah, that too. And believe me, that is weird as hell considering how you look right now. Merlin's wand, Mill. I should find you horrific, not strangely attractive."

Mill tried the peanut-cheek pout again. "Why?"

"You're wearing mustard eyeshadow. You're aware of that, right? And you've highlighted it with scarlet, so it looks as though someone's tried to scratch your eyes out. Now, I'm going to get us drinks. With lots of alcohol."

"I'm going to flirt with Fred," said Mill.

Already heading for the bar, George waved a hand out toward the dancefloor. "He's hiding in the booths over there."

Harry and Malfoy were still at the bar, stirring their drinks and arguing about something that sounded Quidditch related. George leant over the bar to order before joining them.

"You retreat too soon," Malfoy was saying.

"I know when to retreat!"

Malfoy made a sound of derisive disagreement. "You shouldn't retreat at all. Play it straight and see it to the end."

Harry snorted. "You don't see how needlessly aggressive that is?"

Malfoy waved a hand. " _They_  can retreat." He turned to George. "Weasley, tell Potter how utterly appalling he is at flirting."

George lowered his glass and glanced from one of them to the other. "Ah – this is about flirting?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes and turned back to Harry. "On second thought, don't listen to him. The only reason he's not alone and miserable is because he was lucky enough to be snatched up by a Slytherin who – by the way – did not retreat."

Harry laughed at that, though there was some merit to it. "Right. Why are you alone and miserable then?"

Malfoy blinked. "Evidently, Potter, I'm not."

That made Harry tilt his head, eyes narrowing in puzzlement. Before he could say anything, Ginny shoved through the crowded bar and leapt on Malfoy's back.

"You are so damned late! What the hell, Malfoy?"

Malfoy downed his drink in one go and swung Ginny around into his arms. "Good evening, Ginny."

Ginny threw her head back, half-laughing as she slapped at him. "Don't you go 'Good evening'ing me like that. You were meant to be here an hour ago. I been looking for a good dance partner all night. And until you arrived, I have had no success in finding one."

Malfoy looked wounded. "Excuse me, I'm  _not_  a good dance partner. I'm a superb dance partner."

Ginny snorted. "I've seen no evidence of that."

Malfoy lifted her over his shoulder and nodded curtly to Harry and George before stalking off toward the dance floor.

Lifting his glass to his lips, Harry watched them go. Clearing his throat, he glanced at George. "They're friendly."

George shrugged. It had kind of surprised him too. Ginny was almost on a par with Percy for holding grudges, and Malfoy had put quite a bit of effort into teasing her at Hogwarts. Which, given that Malfoy had likely considered her a rival, made more sense now.

"How the hell did she get into the pub?" asked Harry.

George grinned at him. "It's bloody Ginny. You think she's going to let a thing like age keep her out?"

It might have been partially that. But with the second Wizarding war brewing, no one cared that much who was drinking. Children were going to die again. The general unspoken consensus was that they might as well have fun before they went.

"He's…" Harry's brow furrowed. "Malfoy will be at the Burrow again next Christmas then?"

George shrugged. "I doubt we'll be able to keep him out if we tried."

"I thought he hated Ginny," said Harry. He sounded mildly bored, if anything, but there was something else in his tone that George couldn't quite place. Despite knowing Harry's various intonations quite well, this one was unfamiliar.

George began to turn to him – see if he could glean anything from his expression – but before he managed it, Mill toddled over and stole the remnants of his drink.

"Weasley is hiding in the bathrooms," she said before downing contents of the glass. "We should go there and offer him a threesome."

"Not a chance," said George. "You have atrocious taste and would probably prefer him over me."

She laughed and then leant across to pluck Harry's drink out of his hand. "We need more of these," she said. "I will find a table. Please bring supplies and join me."

Then she was off again.


	10. Chapter 10

"Can I help you?"

George blinked and turned around. The bartender had finished with her other customers and was waiting on him. "Maybe a whiskey on the rocks. Oh, and cocktails," he said, grinning at her. "The brightest ones you have."

She glanced over his shoulder at the table Mill, Harry and Malfoy were at as she mixed the drinks. "He's drinking again, then?"

George followed her gaze, frowning. "What?"

"You lot came in after the final battle," the bartender reminded him. "You were all kind of sloshed already – but he wasn't drinking."

George swilled his whiskey around the tumbler, contemplatively. Malfoy hadn't been drinking. Odd that she'd noticed though. He'd pretended to be drinking well enough that the only person who'd realised he wasn't was Ginny.

If George hadn't been heading to the bathroom at the exact moment that she slammed Malfoy up against the wall of the bathroom corridor, he'd not have known it either.

"What the hell are you up to?" she'd demanded. A glint in her eyes promised waves of pain should Malfoy try her.

Rubbing the back of his head, Malfoy swore – colourfully and at length. "What the actual hell, Weasley?"

"Gin?" George tried to keep the sharpness out of his voice, but wasn't all that successful.

Gin didn't spare him a look. She was too focused on Malfoy – the way she focused on enemies. As though she didn't trust him enough to take her eyes off him. "Why aren't you drinking?"

Malfoy stared at her. "Sweet Merlin, I'm allowed to not drink!"

"Yeah," agreed Ginny. "But you're not allowed to pretend that you are. What the hell are you up to, Malfoy?"

George rubbed his temple, trying to figure out what they were talking about. Malfoy – he'd had a drink in his hand pretty much the whole night. Different drinks too – not the same one. But George had also seen him passing drinks off to other people. Had he seen Malfoy drink any of them? Raising them to toast, yes – but, no. George hadn't seen Malfoy raise a glass to his lips the entire night.

Malfoy moved forward and Ginny stabbed him with the point of her wand. He reared back against the wall and glared at George. "Can you call your mental fucking sister off of me, please?"

George ran a hand through his hair, too drunk figure out Ginny's motivations. But he knew her – she never did anything without reason. And she  _liked_  Malfoy. She wouldn't be reacting like this just because she thought he was a prat. "Gin," he said again, voice softer. "What is it?"

"You don't want to know why Malfoy's stone-cold fucking sober and hanging around Harry? Who – incidentally – is getting drunker and drunker as the night passes? You don't want to know why Malfoy wants Harry to think he's drunk too? Because I do."

Malfoy's eyes widened. After a moment, he sagged against the wall, swearing softly. "I wasn't – That – Fuck." He shook himself. "You honestly think I'd get Potter drunk – and do what?"

Ginny raised her eyebrows and Malfoy swore again.

"No," he said, shaking his head. He laughed finally, a huff of exhaustion and disbelief as much as amusement. "I appreciate you looking out for your git of a friend, Weasley, but I have no fucking interest in what you're suggesting."

Ginny lowered her wand, eyes narrowing. She glanced to George then, tilting her head the way she did when asking a question.

He shook his head in answer. He had no idea why Malfoy wasn't drinking.

Malfoy massaged the base of his throat where Ginny had prodded him with her wand. "The Le Stranges and Crouch destroyed the Longbottoms the last time the Dark Lord fell." His voice was quiet, as though he was afraid that it would carry. "So, you're right. I'm staying near Potter – and I'm not drinking."

Ginny blinked as she considered what Malfoy meant. Then she figured it out and her face fell. "Oh. Merlin." She dragged a hand through her hair, glancing up at Malfoy. "I'm sorry. I…"

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably. "I don't expect you to apologise for looking out for your friend." He scowled. "Even if he is the worst excuse for a human in the world. It did – I mean, I guess it did look suspicious. Me not drinking."

Shrugging her agreement, Ginny holstered her wand. "You didn't have to pretend to drink," she pointed out sounding kind of peeved.

Frowning, Malfoy smoothed a hand through his hair. "If I don't, he'll want to know why."

It was true that Malfoy was usually the first to the bar during birthdays. George glanced down the corridor toward the pub. Harry probably would be suspicious if Malfoy wasn't drinking. And he'd just taken down Voldemort. He really deserved to feel safe just this once – even if it didn't last.

"Do you think a revenge attack is likely?" asked George.

Malfoy shook his head, eyes dark with worry and exhaustion. "I have no idea."

However likely or unlikely a revenge attack might be, it was obvious that the target of one would be Harry Potter. So George sobered up, and kept an eye out for him, just in case.

Harry disappeared at some point – leaving Ron, Hermione and Terry Boot behind. George panicked and went looking for him.

He was in the alley behind the pub, tossing a ball transfigured from a coaster against the wall opposite. Malfoy caught it when it came back. George wasn't even surprised that Harry hadn't been able to give him the slip. He glanced into the alley and decided not to bother them. If he put down a couple of protective wards, he could leave Harry in as much peace as he was like to have with Malfoy hanging around. George pulled his wand and got to work.

"So, Ginny was – kissing Blaise Zabini." Harry's voice was blurred, but there was a question to it.

Malfoy shrugged and threw the ball.

Harry glanced at him before catching it. "I thought you were dating Ginny."

Malfoy blinked. "Ginny's a girl."

"You're single then?" Harry shook his head, before laughing, voice kind of soft with exhaustion. "And now I'm dating Terry."

George's shoulders tensed. That wasn't the right response to that. Wasn't any sort of response at all. It made it sound like… Well, Harry  _was_ drunk. And Malfoy, for all of his many faults, was pretty.

Malfoy snorted. "You're a right prat when you're drunk, Potter."

George really was focusing on casting and tying wards, and really wasn't paying attention to the private conversation between Harry and Malfoy. But – well, considering the conversation, it was kind of hard to block out entirely. He glanced down the alley.

"What?" Harry stretched back against the wall, a flicker of a grin touching his mouth. "I'm not a prat when I'm sober?"

Malfoy scratched the back of his neck, casting a sideways look at Harry. "You wouldn't say shit like that if you were sober." He sounded pissed off and kind of trapped – like he wanted to storm off but couldn't because if he did there might be a follow up attack and Harry might die.

George finished tying the final ward and headed back to the pub. Wherever that conversation was going, he didn't want to know about it.

#

"Malfoy usually drinks," George told the bartender as she mixed up some seafoam-green concoction. "That night was an anomaly."

"Malfoy?" she lifted her head to frown at him. "Who cares about Malfoy? I'm talking about Harry Potter. You know, saviour of the Wizarding World?"

George glanced over his shoulder at their table again. Harry had been the one buying drinks that night. For himself and Terry – and actually, for Malfoy too. And he'd sure as hell been drinking them. He'd hardly have been trying to hit Malfoy up if he hadn't been drunk. "He was drinking. Gin tonics, I think." Not something that George would have noticed, but Malfoy had paid Harry out half the night for drinking old lady drinks.

The bartender shook her head. "He asked for plain tonic."

George blinked at her. "But – Well, he had a couple vodka and orange…"

"Just orange."

"Tequila shots," said George. "We all did tequila shots." That memory was clear even through the alcohol-fuzzed memories. Mill had licked salt from his palm, slammed down the shot and kissed him with the remnants of lemon on her lips. And despite everything he'd seen that day – everything he'd done that day – that kiss made the world brighten. Something that two hours of solid drinking hadn't managed.

"Except he did water shots."

George dragged a hand through his hair.

The bartender leant in conspiratorially. "He's fallen off the wagon, hasn't he? You can tell me. Is it because that hunk of a boyfriend dumped him? I'd start drinking again too, to be honest…"

Merlin, the papers kept track of Harry better than George could if this bartender already knew about the breakup. He cleared his throat. "Ah – Can I… That is, these are ready then?" He indicated the drinks and she shrugged wryly, pushing them across.

He made it back to the others without dropping any; which, all things considered, was a laudable achievement. Everyone looked up at him when he reached the table. He glanced from Harry to Malfoy. If they'd both been sober that night… If  _Harry_  had been sober that night – it meant that the stuff he'd said in the alley hadn't been drunken speculation fuelled by idle curiosity about the nearest hot guy. Didn't it? But then what the hell had it been? Harry could be civil enough to Malfoy, but he hated him. Had always hated him. Hadn't he?

"Anytime today, Weasley," Malfoy drawled, waggling a hand for a drink.

George set the glasses on the table and sat down. He glanced at Harry again. Harry who was sitting as far from Malfoy as he could. Who had pulled all the magical mistletoe down that morning so that he wouldn't have to kiss Malfoy.

The whole thing was kind of mental. And all George wanted was to get sloshed so that he wouldn't have to think about it anymore. He reached for his drink and downed it in almost one long gulp.

When Harry and Malfoy went up to get the next round together, George turned to Mill. "Alright. What the hell is the situation between them? You know more than I do, right?"

She gave a little cat grin and cradled her champagne cocktail closer. "I know so much more than you, precious."

George's eyes narrowed. He knew that smile and tone far too well. "You plan on sharing?"

Her grin widened. "If you're not smart enough to figure it out on your own…"

"Shut up. I'm more than smart enough to figure it out."

She blinked at him as though she wasn't even close to convinced. Which meant that he'd have to have this thing unravelled in the next day or she and Parkinson were going to be smug about it for the next decade.

And George was definitely smart enough to figure it out – but he stole the rest of Mill's drink out of spite anyway. Because really, if she had the answers why the hell did he have to go looking for them?


	11. Chapter 11

The first thing to check in this sort of a venture – in any sort of a venture, really – was Hermione Granger. Chances were she'd have all the answers – and if she didn't, she'd have a pretty good idea who did.

As usual Hermione and Parkinson didn't move their luggage to their room until it was nearly bedtime. And George was on the window seat, waiting for them.

"Hello, Granger."

Hermione glanced up from lugging her trunk into the room. "Is this not our room this year?" She looked around, eyes narrowing when she noticed that George and Millicent's belongings weren't strewn around the place. "And why are you calling me by my surname like you're annoyed with me?"

"You tell me," said George.

"I honestly don't know. I haven't meddled with  _anything_  lately."

That might have been true, but George doubted it. Meddling came naturally to Hermione. "Has Parkinson discussed Malfoy with you at all?" George asked.

Hermione's brow furrowed. "What do you mean? Has he done something?"

Pansy walked in then, levitating her case behind her. "Oh, hello, Weasley." She flicked a stray lock of hair out of her face and glanced from George to Hermione. "If you and Millie are fighting, I'm afraid you'll either have to make up with her or sleep on the roof. We don't share."

"I share," said Hermione, looking stung. "I'm sure there's enough room in here…" She looked around again, chewing her lower lip.

Pansy arched her brows. "The Christmas sex, Granger," she said. "Are you really willing to forego the Christmas sex?"

"Ah." Hermione hesitated, evidently thinking hard. "I know spells that will make the roof very comfortable," she offered.

"Obviously Mill and I are not fighting," said George. "Or I would be in our room, engaged in a spirited competition to see who could smash the most things and who could yell the loudest."

"Oh yes," said Pansy. "I forgot that was how you fought."

"That's how you fight as well," said Hermione.

Pansy nodded. "It's far superior to all those other options. I mean, that talking thing you do doesn't work. And those couples who actually withhold sex? Ludicrous!"

George glanced from Hermione to Pansy. "Your jobs are still keeping you away from each other?" It wasn't exactly abnormal for Slytherins to slip sex into otherwise dull conversations, but it seemed to be a bit of a sore point with Pansy right now.

"God, yes." Hermione pushed her luggage into the corner and collapsed on the bed. "I'm on three-week stints in Estonia and only back for a week at a time. And Parkinson is working sixty-hour weeks, which gives us basically one weekend a month."

"Huh," said George. "Pretty sure if I had a job like either of yours, Mill would just replace me."

"Yes, but you're replaceable," said Pansy. "Granger and I aren't."

George laughed.

"Okay." Hermione tapped her foot. "What was it you thought I was meddling in now?"

"Not meddling," said George. "Withholding information."

Pansy blinked. "Uh – usually that's the opposite of what she does."

Hermione punched her in the shoulder. "Shut up. I'm great at keeping secrets. Just – I sometimes don't if I think it's dangerous."

"Have you been keeping secrets about Malfoy?" asked George.

Hermione frowned. "About Malfoy?

George scowled at her. He'd hoped that he'd be able to allude to Malfoy and secrets and it would all come tumbling out. Having to put into words what he wanted to know was beyond him. "And Harry," he said. "What the hell has been going on with them?"

Hermione's eyes widened in understanding. "Ah," she said, brow furrowing as she nodded. "It's weird, isn't it? I thought when he and Callum broke up…" She trailed off, mouth pulling downward. "I guess not."

George stared at her. Was he meant to understand any of that? "Okay, no, go back. I need details from earlier than that."

Now Hermione looked confused. "Earlier – like why Harry and Callum broke up?"

George shook his head. How far back did he even need to go? As far back as Hogwarts? And if so, which year? "Why did Malfoy sabotage Terry's cauldron?" he asked finally. Because that had to be something, right? That Malfoy had watched Harry like a dragon watching its eggs for days and then suddenly tried to tear him apart? Pansy stiffened, eyes darting to Hermione; so George had to be on to something. "I mean, Terry said there were no long-term side effects to those potions but – Well, was there even a reason?"

"Malfoy didn't sabotage Harry's cauldron," said Hermione. "I did."

George swallowed the wrong way and started choking. "Gah – I – What? What the hell, Granger?"

She scowled at him. "Why are you still calling me Granger like you're mad at me? I'm explaining things here."

"For fuck's sake, you – Why didn't you say anything? Malfoy could have been killed!"

She closed her eyes, turning away. "Malfoy wasn't meant to take the blame. He was meant to tell Harry that it was me." So that was why she hadn't followed Harry out into the yard that day. She'd figured he'd find out the truth and come back to confront her. She shook her head and glanced back at George. "Malfoy  _knew_  it was me. We – we'd talked it over. Me, Malfoy and Percy."

" _Percy?_ " The world had gone mad. "You talked to Percy – my  _brother_  Percy – about sabotaging Terry Boot's cauldron?" There was no way in hell that Percy the Prefect would have agreed to anything of the sort.

Hermione rubbed at her shoulder. It had taken a particularly nasty hit during the war and tended to seize up whenever she got tense. "Yeah. We figured out how to do it safely. So that no matter what was brewed in the cauldron no one could get hurt."

George stared at her. "Why, Hermione? There are no long-term side effects from any of those potions…"

"No. You take the potions and everything stays the same," said Hermione. "But that's the problem, George.  _Everything_  stays the same. You're stuck in this mental limbo. Maybe not getting worse; but you never get better."

George glanced to Pansy.

She shrugged, mouth tight as though she could remember too much of those miserable days. "Wizards tend to think there are quick fixes to everything. There aren't. The war fucking sucked, but no one gets a pass on dealing with it."

"The only way out is through," added Hermione. "Harry wouldn't go through on his own. So I made a decision and I pushed him."

"And you thought – what? That it was your right? Despite the fact that Harry wanted to stay on the potions, you figured that it was okay to over-ride him?"

Hermione met his accusing gaze and nodded.

"Not at first," said Pansy. She ran a hand through her hair, glancing sideways at Hermione. "We – we argued about it a lot. I didn't think Harry could take it. Even Malfoy wasn't sure."

"But I know Harry," said Hermione. "I knew he was strong enough. Ron agreed…"

Ron? George tried to think back to those days. To how Ron had been handling everything – and couldn't. But surely he'd have noticed if Ron was trying to make a decision about something as big as this? Something that involved betraying his best friend? "And if you were wrong? What? We could have lost him!"

"We were losing him!" Hermione exclaimed. "He slipped further away every day! At least Malfoy could bring parts of him back sometimes – if he…if he said something horrible enough that it got through! But even he was starting to fail."

"I can't believe you'd do something like that," said George. "I mean, Malfoy – He has no moral centre, but you!"

"The morality of the decision wasn't difficult. We lost enough in the final battle without letting Harry's humanity go with it. I destroyed a cauldron, George. And tampered with a couple of potions ingredients. That's all I did, and it was enough to get Harry off the potions."

"Because he almost killed Malfoy. You terrified him out of ever touching that stuff again." But through the initial shock of the discovery, George was starting to see where Hermione was coming from. Harry had been on the potions for two months and he nearly killed George, Malfoy and Ginny when he came off them. A couple of years of dulling himself to everyone who loved him, and he might have. George paced the limited floor space.

"I would have taken the blame," said Hermione, voice tight as though she wished she had taken the blame. As though being honest and keeping someone hurt more than lying and losing them. "I  _wanted_  to. If it meant that Harry had a chance of being himself again, I'd have sacrificed his friendship in a heartbeat. I still would."

George didn't doubt it. Not of Hermione or of Ron. "Why did Malfoy take the blame then? He knew the plan, right?"

"He knew my plan." Hermione smiled, but it was a little too much like a grimace. "His was slightly different."

"He didn't think that Potter could afford to lose Granger," said Pansy. She stretched her back lightly and dropped onto the bed. "He didn't want to chance it."

George swore. Paced some more, and swore again. He laughed finally, dragging a hand through his hair. "I talked to Creevey today." He sat in the chair by the window so heavily that it creaked in protest. "I asked him why the hell Malfoy had sold the story of the final battle to him."

Pansy snorted, looking kind of bored. "He probably said something mental."

George shrugged. "He said that it was Malfoy's moral duty to sell him the story."

Pansy laughed. "What an idiot."

"He wasn't wrong though, was he? Malfoy sold him the story because he thought it was the right thing to do. Not because of any petty jealousies over Terry Boot?"

Pansy flicked her hair over her shoulder, rolling her eyes at George. "Who in the world would be jealous of Terry fucking Boot?"

George stared at her. That – Well, shit. Malfoy had never bothered treating Terry Boot that badly. George had thought – Well, the logical conclusion was that Malfoy wanted Harry to be happy after the war – after everything. But no. He just hadn't been jealous. Because Terry was smart, but he wasn't brilliant. He was attractive, but he wasn't stunning. Pleasant, but not exciting. He was – conventional. Safe. And one thing that Harry did not do was safe.

But Callum… Fuck. Callum was something else. An actual threat. Someone that Harry could have been adventurous with, interested in, fascinated by – happy with. "Well, fuck," said George, but that was a whole other thing that he'd have to consider later. Right now, he wanted affirmation that his Daily Prophet theory was correct. "Creevey said the press hounded Harry for days, trying to get the story of the final battle?"

Hermione shrugged. "It got pretty bad."

"Did they stop after Malfoy sold the story?"

Hermione smiled, eyes kind of pained. "Within half an hour. No one needed it from Harry. They got it from Malfoy."

George let out a breath and buried his head in his hands. So as much of a git Malfoy was, he had been trying to help. In his own twisted way. And probably shoving Harry further away with every step.

"Why are you only figuring this out now?" asked Pansy.

"Because I'm an idiot," said George. "Obviously." He lifted his head to frown at her and she held up her hands.

"Hey, no argument from me. I completely agree."

George laughed. "Someone could have said something. Christ, Malfoy could have told me."

Pansy grinned; the sharp brutal grin that meant something was hurting her and she wanted to kill it. She didn't bother replying. Neither did Granger.

"Okay," said George. "So what does Harry know – I mean – There's…" He broke off, not knowing how to explain the tiny instances he'd seen between Harry and Malfoy, that could be something more but never quite were. Harry had shared his ice-cream earlier that day. He'd let Malfoy lean against him, blonde head tucked into his shoulder after the dragon attack… Shaking his head, George tried again. "Is there any hope for Malfoy?"

Hermione glanced at Parkinson. They both sighed, Granger's shoulders slumping. "You'd have to ask Harry." Her voice was soft with something worryingly close to sadness.

There was no way that that was all Mill knew. There had to be more lurking deeper, George just hadn't hit the right question yet. "But I'm asking you!" he protested. "Haven't you broached the topic with him? You're best friends for Merlin's sake!"

Parkinson's eyes narrowed. "Why are you pushing this so hard all of a sudden?"

Crap. George tried to school his features to innocence. "Oh well, you know, festive season. No one should be alone on the holidays and all that."

"Why don't you ask Mill?" asked Parkinson.

"Ah – she doesn't know?"

Parkinson laughed. "If you have a bet going over whether you can solve the Potter/Malfoy thing, then maybe you should actually solve it?"

God damn Slytherins were too shrewd for their own good. George threw up his hands. "Which is why I came straight to Potter's best friend! I  _have_  sleuthing skills." Which actually made a load of sense. Talking to people close to a target kind of was the best way to figure them out.

Looking supremely unimpressed with this reasoning, Hermione and Parkinson pointed sternly at the door.

George stomped out, but he wasn't as dejected as he might have been. It had just occurred to him that Harry had two best friends.


End file.
